


Moments In Time

by Snafu1000



Series: 'Moments In Time' Universe [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-12 20:50:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 69
Words: 309,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snafu1000/pseuds/Snafu1000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What started as a quest for revenge becomes something greater, and what began as friendship slowly becomes much more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reluctant Mercy

"We surrender! For the love of the Maker, we surrender!"

Talia Cousland drew back, staring at the soldier with something beyond hate. The bastard claimed to have been at Ostagar, had withdrawn at Loghain's command, and he had still had the nerve to call the _Grey Wardens_ traitors? Before she could spit on him and relieve him of his head, a woman's voice spoke up.

"Good. There has been enough bloodshed." The auburn-haired Chantry girl, her robes spattered with no small amount of the blood that had been shed, stepped forward, blue eyes fixed on the three that remained of Loghain's hounds, expression stern. As well it might be, since they had been trying to kill her, too, for no greater crime than trying to stop the fight in the first place.

"I trust you've learned your lesson?" Her voice had the gently lilting accent that Talia had heard in Orlesian traders who had visited Highever on occasion.

"Aye, m'lady," the coward swore, his earlier arrogance vanished along with his ruddy complexion, ghost pale now beneath the stain of his own blood.

Talia shook her head. "I'm not done teaching." Alistair flanked her on the right, Morrigan on the left, both of them wearing the same implacable expressions, though each for very different reasons. Brego's snarl rumbled like the first warning of an onrushing avalanche, and the mabari crouched low as she lifted her sword – her father's sword, watching the eyes of her target widen, mouth dropping open to stammer out a last futile plea.

"No!" The girl moved between them, dagger sheathed and arms outstretched. A quick chopping signal from Talia brought Brego to the ground mid-leap as if he'd been pulled down. "These men have surrendered. You must show them mercy."

"Mercy?" Talia felt her lips skinning back from her teeth in a mirthless smile. "I'll give them the mercy of a quick death, Sister. The same 'mercy' they were going to extend to us. Step aside and pray for them, if you are so worried about their souls."

She didn't move. "You are better than that." Her tone was earnest, pleading, eyes never leaving Talia's face. "You are Grey Wardens."

_For less than a week,_ Talia wanted to say. The darkspawn blood had barely been dry on her lips when the last battle at Ostagar had been entered and lost. She'd lain insensible in Flemeth's hut for…she still wasn't sure how many days, only to awake and find -

"The last two, thanks to this filth and their master," she snapped, glaring past the sister to the three men, seeing the shadow of intent fall over the eyes of the leader an instant before he moved.

He lunged forward, dragging the Chantry girl back against him with one hand and starting to bring his blade around to her throat, but a slight twitch from Talia's sword hand was all that it took to bring Brego off the floor. One hundred fifty pounds of solid muscle sailed through the air, latching onto the hand holding the sword and dragging it away from its target in a spray of bone and blood, the weapon clattering to the floor.

The man screamed, high pitched and wavering, and his grip on his would-be hostage loosened. Quick as a cat, she twisted free and spun, driving her knee up and into his groin, adding a new note of agony to his wail as he crumpled to the floor.

And _still_ she kept herself between Talia and her quarry. "Call him off!" her face was pale as she stared at Brego, who had reduced the hand in his jaws to splintered bone and was starting up the arm. "Please!"

"Brego, out!" The dog obeyed the command instantly, releasing the bloody, ruined limb and moving to heel beside his mistress, burly head swiveling between the remaining two, who looked as though they would stay rooted to the spot if every darkspawn in the Blight were to come through the tavern door.

"You still think I should spare them?" Talia demanded, trying to tamp down the urge to simply knock the fool aside. With word being spread that the Grey Wardens were the cause of the King's death, they could ill afford to alienate potential allies, and the girl _had_ fought on their side, when it came down to fighting.

"Yes." She plainly knew how unreasonable the notion sounded, but she remained resolute. "Enough blood has been shed, and more will be before the Blight is over. The Maker would not have us bring death to each other, when there is a greater foe to be fought."

"Told you that, did he?" Talia asked tersely. The girl flushed, but showed no sign of relenting.

Her breath escaped her in a frustrated hiss, and she turned to her companions. Alistair gave her a helpless shrug and Morrigan shook her head in disgust.

"Send them on their way, if that is your wish," the witch sighed, rolling her eyes. "Shall we pack a lunch for them, as well, or perhaps give them our tents so that they may stay dry as they make their way back to report our whereabouts?"

"Damned if I'm going that far," Talia grumbled under her breath, turning back to the leader of the soldiers, who was still curled on the floor, holding the mangled remains of his hand and moaning. "Look at me, traitor."

She waited until his eyes focused on her through the pain haze. "I am letting you go to take a message to Loghain Mac Tir." She would not call the man Teyrn; he had lost all claim to that title. "Tell him that the Grey Wardens know what he did. We know, and we will make him pay." She doubted that he would lose much sleep over the threat that all two of the remaining Grey Wardens posed. She didn't know if it was what Duncan would have wanted, or even what a Grey Warden was supposed to do, but she felt better for having made the vow, and when she glanced back at Alistair, he was nodding in agreement, his face set in hard lines once more.

The man gaped up at her for a moment, then nodded frantically, pushing himself to his feet with his uninjured hand and shedding more blood from what was left of the other. He swayed, and the other two caught him before he could fall.

"If you're still here by the time my sword is clean, he won't get the chance to bleed out," Talia informed them, pulling a cloth from the pouch at her hip and turning away, hurried footsteps clanking on the floor behind her.

She stared down at the blade, memories of it in her father's hand warring with her mother's voice. _Howe must not get his hands on the Cousland sword, Talia!_

"One more thing." She turned, and the two men, who were half-dragging, half-carrying their barely conscious leader, stopped as if they'd been called to attention, their eyes locking on Brego. "If you see Rendon Howe, tell him that Talia Cousland is coming to cut out his treacherous heart."

She couldn't be sure that Howe and Loghain were conspiring, but the two betrayals coming so close together felt like more than a coincidence. "Tell him that," she repeated, her voice suddenly hoarse, feeling raw emotion rippling across her face unchecked: hate, pain and a bottomless grief that would swallow her whole if she let it. "Now, go!"

She dropped into a chair, laying the sword on the table beside her, hearing the tavern door open and shut. Alistair and Morrigan joined her as the innkeep marshaled help to haul out the bodies of the three who hadn't survived. Brego butted against her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, heedless of the gore that covered his head and muzzle. They'd both need baths tonight.

"Thank you." The Chantry girl approached, blue eyes warm and approving. "I know that was hard for you to do."

Talia lifted her head, regarding the girl - woman, she corrected herself. Up close, she looked to be several years older than Talia. She regarded the woman wearily. "You know nothing about me." Retrieving sword and cloth, she began cleaning the blood from the blade, careful to get all the traces from the elaborate metalwork of the hilt. Her vision blurred, and she closed her eyes, waiting for it to pass. She had not cried since she had left her parents to die, and she would not cry until she had put Howe's head on a pike to feed the crows.

"Nor do you know me," the woman replied, "and if we are to be traveling together, we should at least be properly introduced. I am Leliana."

Talia gritted her teeth against the compassion in the soft voice. She'd never been good at hiding her emotions, and they came surging to the fore all too frequently now. It took a moment for the words themselves to filter into her consciousness, and her head came up. "Come again with that?"

"I'm coming with you." She said it as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. "To help you fight the darkspawn. It is the Maker's will for me."

"More crazy? I thought we were full up already." Alistair's voice, pitched for her ears only, and she reached for the mug of ale that had been set beside her, taking a quick drink to hide her smirk. His joking could get tedious, but it had also kept them both from simply shattering beneath the crushing burden that had been placed squarely upon their shoulders. It didn't get much crazier than the notion that two half trained Grey Wardens could raise enough of an army to turn back a Blight. You laughed at what you could or you really _would_ go crazy, and if on some days the laughter sounded more like sobs…well, they had a silent pact not to mention it to each other.

After she had gotten her expression under control, she turned back to the woman - Leliana, she corrected herself again. "I don't think that's such a good idea," she told her, not bothering to keep the sarcasm from her voice. She'd let the men go, but she wasn't happy about it, and saw no reason to pretend otherwise. "We might actually need to kill something at some point. Or someone."

"I know that," Leliana replied with a sigh. "Perhaps I shouldn't have stopped you this time, but there was no need for them all to die. I won't do such a thing again unless you should attempt to harm an innocent."

"Innocent by whose definition?" Talia countered, feeling her temper rise at the implication. "Because if you think that the three who just left were innocent -"

"I know they were not," she answered, her face serious, "but killing them would have served no purpose."

"Besides preventing them from reporting our location to the man who would like to complete the extermination of the Grey Wardens, you mean?" Morrigan demanded in exasperation.

"He would have discovered that anyway," Leliana said, shrugging. "The reward offered for information on any surviving Grey Wardens is not a small one. More than one pair of feet has crept from Lothering since you arrived. Would you kill them all for being hungry and desperate?"

"No." Talia finished cleaning the sword, tilting it to and fro in the firelight before returning it to its scabbard. She'd tend to the edge when they camped tonight. "But I'm not going lay down and bare my neck to their blades, either. If the people here are in such dire straights, shouldn't you stay and help them?"

"Lothering will fall." Her tone was matter of fact, but the blue eyes were sad. "It is in the path of the Blight, and the Arl has withdrawn his forces. All who do not flee to the north soon will die."

"You could go with them," Talia suggested. "It would be safer."

"If safety was my goal, I would," she replied simply, "but it is not. This Blight is an affront to the Maker's creation. Your duty as Grey Wardens is to fight against it, and it is the Maker's will that I fight beside you." She cocked her head, her gaze becoming challenging. "I think I've shown that I can do more than pray."

"She did pretty well, actually," Alistair admitted reluctantly.

Morrigan glared at him, amber eyes sparking with irritation. "You obviously took a harder blow to the head than Mother thought."

"Maybe I'd just like someone to have a civil conversation with?"

"If that is all you wish, I'll find you a sheep. Anything smarter would surely be beyond your intellect."

"Peace, Morrigan," Talia sighed. Three days of creeping through the Korcari Wilds with the two of them sniping back and forth had left her ready to scream on more than one occasion, just to see if the darkspawn horde that it brought down on them would be an improvement.

She turned her attention back to Leliana, whose lips were twitching visibly at the conversation. "What makes you think that it's the Maker's will that you come with us?"

The woman ducked her head, then lifted it again. "I…had a vision," she murmured, looking nervous but resolute.

"A vision?" Alistair gave a low whistle. "Did it involve a talking halibut and a hat rack? Because I always hated that one –"

"Alistair!" Talia snapped over her shoulder.

"Sorry." He didn't sound overly repentant.

Leliana simply looked resigned; unsurprisingly, such ridicule was nothing new. "I am coming with you," she announced defiantly. "You can't stop me. I'll just follow you, if you won't let me accompany you."

Talia wasn't impressed. "Not if I tie you up."

"Promises, promises." The redhead's eyes took on a saucy gleam, her lips curving in a teasing smile.

Talia blinked, staring blankly at the woman, then back at Alistair, who was suddenly looking anywhere but at her or Leliana, and whose face had gone an interesting shade of scarlet.

Morrigan's rich laugh filled the common room. "Oh, this could be entertaining, indeed. I've changed my mind; bring her along, by all means."

Heaving another sigh, Talia turned her eyes back to Leliana, who wore an expression of chagrin. "I'm sorry," the redhead said quietly. "That was…inappropriate."

"I'll take your word for it," Talia murmured, wishing that her mother hadn't been quite so scrupulous about dragging her from the dining hall when Fergus and his friends had gone too deep into their cups. She'd always suspected that there were gaps in her education.

Leliana gave her an odd look, but went on earnestly. "Please, just give me the chance to prove myself to you. I know that I can be of help. Your dog likes me," she added, smiling as Brego approached and began snuffling on the ground at her feet.

"Ah…not precisely." Talia came to her feet and nudged Leliana backward a step, then bent down to take away what he had started chewing on. "Don't eat that," she scolded him without any real heat. Picking up the hand - half a hand, really, she pitched it into the fireplace.

She straightened, wiping her hand on the hem of her tunic. "I've got to take him out to hunt. You're sure you want to come with us?"

Leliana swallowed hard, keeping her eyes turned from the fireplace. "Yes. I do. It's –"

"The will of the Maker. I know." Talia shot an inquiring glance toward her two human companions, giving them a final chance to speak, then shrugged. "Suit yourself."

She started for the door with Brego at her side, stopped and turned around. "But we _will_ bring Loghain to justice," she promised, her voice deadly quiet, "and Howe, as well. Come between me and them on that day, and I'll kill you myself."

Leliana met her eyes, nodded slowly. "Fair enough."


	2. Getting Acquainted

"So…"

Leliana turned her head, giving the young man a faint smile as he drew up alongside her. Talia had ranged ahead with that monstrous dog of hers, and the exotic beauty with the arrogant bearing – Morrigan was her name – had taken up a spot in the middle of the line, radiating a 'stay away' aura that no one attempted to defy.

"Yes?" She'd suspected that he would be the one who would speak to her first. "Alistair, isn't it?"

"It is," he confirmed with a nod, his eyes openly appraising. "So, what's a girl like you doing in the Chantry?"

She laughed softly. She'd been expecting that, too. "That depends upon what you mean by a girl like me," she replied, letting just a touch of the coquette color her voice. He wasn't the first to ask, but this was the first time she would have to maintain the cover that she established for an extended period.

He flushed a bit, looking shy, but didn't become incoherent. She'd read him correctly; reassuring to know that her skills hadn't atrophied completely. "Well, I was raised in the Chantry, and I don't remember any of the Sisters there fighting like you."

 _Or looking like you,_ his admiring gaze added before he glanced away bashfully.

"Well, I wasn't raised in the Chantry," she told him, a bit charmed with his boyishness in spite of herself. "I've taken no vows, in fact. I'm just a lay-sister: one who sought out the sanctuary of the Chantry to spend time in contemplation and prayer."

"And what, exactly, were you seeking sanctuary from?" he asked. "You're Orlesian, aren't you?"

"My mother was Fereldan," she countered smoothly. She hadn't missed the hint of something a bit stronger than curiosity beneath his bantering tone. Not that she could blame him. She hadn't been lying about the reward being offered by Teyrn Loghain, and to run into someone offering to accompany them into the gathering storm would surely seem to be more than coincidence. "She was the servant to an Orlesian noblewoman. I was born in Orlais, and spent most of my life there." So far, so good. She hadn't had to lie yet, and if she was careful, she could slide past on evasion and omissions. A subtle distinction, perhaps, but one that she had to live with. As much as she yearned to simply tell the truth, she was afraid that this wary bunch would send her away if they knew of her past, and the imperative of her vision was strong, pushing her forward. Perhaps in a few days, once she had proven her worth…

"As a minstrel?" He glanced at the lute case strapped to her pack.

"Why, yes." She turned the smile up a notch, congratulating him on his keen powers of observation, and watched with a mix of satisfaction and guilt as his chest puffed out a bit. Let people create their own story from their assumptions, and they were much less likely to question it. That it was also at least partly true didn't hurt, either...but she was still deceiving him. All of them. "I traveled from town to town, keep to keep, trading songs and tales for applause and coin. I was on the road much of the time."

"Which explains where you learned to fight," he concluded sagely, following the trail that she had laid out for him. No, he would not be hard to work around, but the mage definitely did not seem to be one that she would be able to charm so easily, and Talia –

"So…get tied up often?" She gave him a sideways glance, but the droll expression on his face suggested that he was simply ribbing her for her little gaffe in Dane's Refuge, rather than trying any real lechery.

"Not really," she admitted, still feeling a little foolish. "It was a silly thing to say; I'm not sure why I did it." The first real lie. She'd made the comment quite deliberately. Negotiations hadn't been going well, and she'd needed some way to nudge Talia off balance. If the girl had responded to the innuendo with interest, Leliana would have proceeded one way; if she had been outraged or offended, a different tactic would have been called for. She hadn't counted on her meaning sailing right over the girl's head, and _she_ had wound up being the one off balance.

She lifted her eyes to the trail ahead, seeing the glint of sun off Talia's helmet, a flash of tawny hide as the mabari ranged to either side of her. "She really didn't know what I was talking about?"

Alistair shrugged. "Certainly looked that way, didn't it?" He followed her gaze, shaking his head slowly. "She's the daughter of Teyrn Cousland of Highever. I guess she's had a sheltered upbringing…at least until recently."

Leliana nodded. The word of what had happened at Ostagar had spread quickly, though the truth of the matter lay beneath layers of tales that varied almost as greatly as the number of mouths telling them. "Odd that such protective parents would permit her to join the Grey Wardens," she mused, "or was the right of conscription claimed?"

"They…really didn't have a lot of say in it." He looked suddenly uncomfortable. "Arl Howe betrayed her father. His forces attacked Highever when the Cousland militia left for Ostagar. Her family was killed; Duncan – the Warden Commander - brought her out."

"Her whole family?" She stared at him in horror; that tale hadn't yet made it to Lothering.

"Her older brother led the forces at Ostagar," he replied somberly. "They were on patrol in the Wilds when the battle was entered. It's possible that they survived…but not likely."

"That's awful," she murmured, glancing back up the trail. "The poor girl."

"Yes, well, you don't necessarily need to tell her that I told you." He sighed, looking uncomfortable. "It probably wasn't my place, but it's something you need to know. I wouldn't bring it up to her, not unless she mentions it first."

Something in his voice caught her attention. "Why?" It made sense in terms of avoiding causing needless pain, but there was plainly more to it than that.

His hazel eyes held hers. "Her mother was a battlemaiden, fought during the war with Orlais alongside her father, and she's been swinging a sword since she was old enough to hold one, though I don't think she'd ever been in a real battle until Howe attacked Highever. She's a good fighter. Scary good. Duncan didn't recruit her out of pity."

He went on, stepping around a hummock of grass. "Sometimes, though, she's just…scary. Crazy. And if she starts thinking about her family, it's worse. It's like she doesn't care if she lives or dies. She won't stop fighting until everything is dead or she's down. If not for Morrigan and her herb craft, I don't know that she'd have made it out of the Wilds alive. I think that the thought of killing Howe is the only thing keeping her going."

Leliana nodded. Talia had been cold, angry when she had promised vengeance upon Teyrn Loghain, but her face had been a play of ragged emotion when she had spoken of Howe, her voice balanced on a knife edge of control. "And she leads us?" she asked, feeling a ripple of disquiet in her chest. Pity and compassion were all well and good, but she had followed blindly before and paid the price; she would not do so again.

Alistair nodded, looking a trifle shamefaced. "She's actually pretty good at it when she's not…you know." He shrugged awkwardly. "Whoever taught her sword work schooled her in tactics, as well. She's better at it than I would be, anyway. I'm no leader," he admitted with surprising candor. "Never really wanted to be one."

"Another reason why a sheep would be such an ideal choice of companion," Morrigan called over her shoulder without turning around. Leliana jumped; the witch didn't look close enough to have overheard their conversation.

"Speaking of scary," Alistair muttered balefully, glowering at the pale skin of Morrigan's back, then sticking his tongue out at her.

Leliana giggled. "And how did she come to join this merry group?" The bard in her was already working over the dramatic potential of the situation: a pretty young noblewoman out to avenge the murders of her family, a handsome knight and a beautiful sorceress, all venturing forth together against the Blight. It was the stuff that epic ballads were made of. Of course, certain details were going to have to be left out…like the fair maiden being a berserker, the knight being perfectly willing to follow instead of lead, and the sorceress showing every indication of being a raging bitch. And the dismembered hand was definitely _not_ going to be mentioned. Then, of course, there was their newest companion…

"Wasn't my idea," Alistair assured her with a sour expression. "She's the daughter of Flemeth." This last was delivered in a suitably dramatic tone.

"The Witch of the Wilds?" Leliana regarded him skeptically, unsure if he was teasing her again. "I thought that I was the one to be telling tales? Next thing I know, you'll be singing."

"You'd better hope not," he replied amiably. "I was given permanent exemption from the choir when I was at the Chantry for a good reason. Anyway, I don't know if she's _the_ Flemeth of legend, but she plucked Talia and I out of the middle of the darkspawn army at Ostagar - the dog, too. You don't do that with parlor tricks. She saved our lives, so we couldn't really say no when she wanted Morrigan to come with us."

"Interesting." Leliana cast a speculative glance toward Morrigan, then past her to where Talia was beckoning them forward with an upraised arm.

"Quietly," Alistair warned her - needlessly - as he stepped past her, his easygoing expression hardening into the face of the Warden who had killed Loghain's soldiers in the tavern.

Talia had dropped into a crouch a few feet away from the edge of a bluff, the dog stretched out by her side. Rough voices could be heard beyond, laughing and shouting. "I think we've found the bandits. Some of them, anyway."

Groups of bandits had taken to prowling the outskirts of Lothering, attacking anyone who ventured far from the village. The Chantry had enlisted them to clear out the worst of the bands in preparation for the evacuation of the town ahead of the Blight.

Talia was scowling. She pulled off her helmet; wisps of dark hair had escaped the leather thong that she used to tie it back, and she brushed them away from her face irritably. "I take it Lothering doesn't have a proper jail?"

"No…they don't. Such a small town never had need of one…at least, before the Blight drove so many northward," Leliana replied, puzzled by the question until she realized where they must be. Her heart sank. "They're at the cages, aren't they?"

"Good guess." The Warden's brown eyes were hard, her face set into lines of disapproval. "If this is the fate of all criminals here, I don't wonder that there aren't many."

"Not all of them," Leliana protested, feeling compelled to defend her adopted home, despite the fact that the practice in question had never settled well with her. That the young Warden seemed to share her disapproval was somewhat reassuring, quieting some of the doubts that Alistair's words had stirred. "Just the most dangerous."

"What fate?" Alistair looked puzzled.

"Look for yourself," Talia replied, jerking her head toward the edge of the bluff. The motion set her face in profile, displaying the fine-boned features of the old Ferelden aristocracy: high cheekbones, narrow nose, large, dark eyes, canted ever so slightly upward, strong jaw and chin made even more so by the grim set of her mouth. Her dusky brown skin bore traces of sweat and dust from the trail, and her fingers rested lightly on the hilt of the sword at her hip, but despite her serious expression, she looked impossibly young: tall and slim, arms and legs coltish and awkward looking. Nineteen, perhaps? Surely no older. Too young to look so hardened, so weary.

Leliana dropped to her belly along with Alistair and crawled forward until she could see over the edge of the bluff, tall grass hiding them from the eyes below.

The cages had been there for generations, reserved for the worst criminals, which meant that they saw little use. Pickpockets and thieves were simply flogged out of town, but the more dangerous offenders: murderers, rapists and such, had been placed here, well away from the town, until the local Arl's forces could transport them for trial. It had been a safe enough course; the wildlife in the area was generally harmless, and bandits had been few and quickly dealt with, until the flow of refugees had led to a sudden surge in violence as predators of both the two and four-legged variety trailed in their wake, picking off the weakest.

Almost overnight, the three cages had been perpetually full, and hastily expanded to six, but after the Arl's forces had withdrawn, only the barest pretense of the normal routine was observed. The prisoners were given no food, and only occasional water when someone remembered to go. If the number of the accused exceeded half a dozen, the excess were simply manacled to the outside of the existing cages, and the only time that a cage opened up was when the occupant died of exposure or hunger.

The cages themselves were cramped and narrow, giving barely enough room for those inside to sit, let alone lay down, but they at least provided protection from the wolf packs that now prowled the outskirts of Lothering. The three men that had been chained outside the cages had been in the last group of bandits caught, more than a week ago, when they made the mistake of trying to rob the Chantry. They looked to have been dead for several days, their bodies little more than gnawed bones with rotting scraps of flesh still clinging here and there, and Leliana could only hope that they had been dead before the wolves began to feed.

Two of the cages had been broken open, the bandits inside them sitting on the ground beside their comrades, frantically devouring some scrap of food. Two of the other prisoners looked as though they had been dead when the bandits arrived, and Leliana felt her stomach twist with guilt. The templars had forbidden any in the Chantry to leave the village after the bandits attacked. Prior to that, she had taken two skins of water out each day. She couldn't in conscience give the prisoners any of the increasingly scant food supply, but water was easy enough to come by…for now.

She had meant to sneak out, but a fresh wave of refugees, many of them injured, had taken her attention, and then the dream had come to her… She shook her head, feeling self reproach stinging her eyes. Perhaps the vision had not been a call to action at all, but a test of how easily she could be distracted from the tasks of her newly found faith. Perhaps…

"What is _that_?" Alistair asked in a low voice, his eyes on the lone prisoner remaining alive: a giant of a man with bronze skin and frost white hair twisted into unkempt braids, his clothes hanging from him in tattered rags. He stood motionless, glaring at the cluster of bandits with contempt. As they watched, one of the group drew back on a bow and sent an arrow singing through the air toward the cage. The giant didn't flinch as the missile struck one of the bars and was deflected in a tiny spray of sparks. The bandits roared with laughter, and another one let fly. This time, the arrow made it past the bars, only to be snatched from the air by a massive hand that moved too quickly for the eye to follow, breaking it in half and letting the pieces fall to the ground. The arrow riddled corpse in the final cage was mute testimony that the bandits had been at their pastime for a while.

"He's a qunari," Leliana said, inching back from the edge of the bluff and pushing herself to her knees. "The Revered Mother said that he slaughtered an entire farmhold, even the children."

Talia's eyes darkened at the mention of children. "They know that he did it?"

Leliana swallowed. "I…do not know," she admitted. "I heard that he surrendered without a fight, but he has refused to speak, and he has not yet been tried."

"No? It seems to me that he has already been convicted and sentenced." Morrigan's voice was acerbic, those exotic, golden eyes narrowed as she stared toward the bluff edge as though she could see the scene unfolding below. Perhaps she could. "Tis only a matter of time before the cowards here finish him off, sparing the cowards in that filthy little town the nuisance of a trial."

Talia regarded her quizzically. "Compassion, Morrigan? I thought Alistair was the one who got hit on the head."

"A proud and strong creature has been left to die in a manner that a mad dog would be spared," the witch countered haughtily, not showing a trace of discomfiture at the jibe. "Should we rejoice in that fact, perhaps stand up here and cheer the rats on as they chew at the feet of the chained lion?"

Doubt shadowed Talia's face for a moment, but she shook her head. "No," she said slowly. "You're right, Morrigan. If he killed those people, he deserves death, but not like this." Her lips curled suddenly in a wolfish grin. "What say we do something about it?"

"There's twelve of them," Alistair announced as he crept away from the edge.

"Fourteen, counting the two that they broke out," Talia replied without looking around, "but I don't think they'll be much use."

"Three to one odds?" he asked dubiously. The dog whined low in its throat. "Sorry."

"It is said that a mabari is worth at least two armed men," Talia said, scratching behind the beast's ears as she retrieved a stick from the ground. "So…two to one, maybe. And they've gotten lazy with the easy pickings; they should have had a watch posted."

She began drawing lines in the dirt with the tip of the stick. "The trees to the north," she began, looking directly at the dog and speaking as she would have to a person. "Get there and hide until we attack, then go after the archers hard." The dog gave a soft woof and was gone, lost in the grass as it moved down the slope to circle around the bandits.

Leliana stared after him, astonished. She'd heard that the famed mabari hounds were much more intelligent than regular dogs, but – "What?" She turned her eyes back to Talia, realizing that the Warden had been addressing her.

"I said, are you any good with that bow?" Talia nodded at the longbow secured to Leliana's pack, her expression saying plainly that their newest companion was ranking below the dog, in terms of paying attention, at least.

She was on the verge of replying that she'd simply picked the weapon because it looked good with her hair, but thought better of it. "I am."

Talia nodded again. "Then you and Morrigan pick them off from up here while Alistair and I engage directly." She turned to her fellow Warden. "Any reason to try diplomacy first?"

"They don't look like the chatty sort." Alistair slid his shield from his back, buckling it into place with practiced motions.

"Good." The wolfish grin appeared again as she rose and donned her own shield, brown eyes gleaming with anticipation and her face alight with a keen eagerness. "Don't open fire until we've got their attention."

"Any other obvious instructions?" Morrigan demanded, echoing Leliana's own exasperated but unvoiced sentiment.

The grin widened, and Leliana realized with a chill that the girl was looking forward to the fight, energized by the prospect of killing the men below. "Don't hit us," she replied, slipping her helmet back on, and was gone, moving in a low crouch down the slope, following the path the dog had taken, Alistair close behind.

"I don't know how scrupulously I would follow that suggestion," Morrigan muttered, stepping closer to the bluff's edge. "An arrow to her posterior might teach our fearless leader a bit more caution." Moments later, the two Wardens exploded from cover, covering the ground between the foot of the bluff and the loose cluster of bandits at a dead run. "But it would most likely only irritate her," the witch concluded with a resigned sigh, raising her staff.

Leliana let the words slide to the edge of her awareness, her world narrowing down to the straight line of the arrow as she fit the nock to the bowstring and drew back, sighting down it at a grubby, lanky man in tattered leather armor who was turning his own bow to meet the Wardens' charge. She released cleanly, the vibration of the string humming through her hand and up her arm, her eyes remaining fixed to her target as her right hand returned to her quiver. She was out of practice: her aim had been low, the arrow lodging in the meat of his upper arm, rather than his neck, but as she drew back for another shot, the tawny form of the dog hurtled from the copse of aspen trees, bowling over the archer, fangs flashing white, then lost in a gout of red.

Archery was a sport of nobility in Orlais, and even highborn ladies frequently had skill with a shortbow, engaging in contests at tourneys while the men beat each other senseless in the melees. The weapons were elegant: laminated ivory and hardwood bows, the arms intricately carved along the back, the arrows fletched with feathers shed by the hunting falcons. The targets were stationary and bloodless, the prize for victory an expensive perfume or some intricate bauble: a necklace or bracelet, perhaps. Leliana had first honed her talents at such matches, enjoying the laughter and lively chatter, the chilled wine and delicacies that were served at the sidelines, playing her lute for Lady Cecilie in between rounds, as a good minstrel should.

A few short years and a lifetime later, the skills that she had learned there were perfected in a much different contest, where the targets moved, bled and died, and the reward for victory was your own life and payment for completion of the job.

The recurved longbow that she used now was no lady's toy, though it _was_ rather pretty, the yew polished to a soft gleam along the sweep of the limbs and the leather of the hand grip neatly stitched into place. It was a poor second to the bow she'd left behind in Orlais, both in looks and construction, but it was still quite deadly. In seconds, she had taken down two of the four archers, the dog accounting for the other two. She shifted her aim to the seething knot of combat, taking in the scene with an appraising eye.

After their initial charge, Talia and Alistair had quickly settled into a back to back position, giving their opponents no chance to come at them from behind. Alistair had taken a defensive stance: feet planted at shoulder width, moving as little as possible, pivoting his upper body to meet and return attacks, using his shield for cover and sending his longsword sweeping out in controlled, deadly strikes.

Talia was all motion. Lighter than most of her opponents, she had plainly been taught to turn that potential liability into an advantage, and her long limbs moved with a fluid grace, all traces of youthful awkwardness vanished. She spun, twisted, wove and ducked in and out of range, never still, her shield as much weapon as defense, dealing out savage, smashing blows, then following up with flickering sweeps of her blade, avoiding most strikes by simply not being there when they landed.

Not all the attacks had missed; Leliana could see fresh blood flowing down the girl's sword arm from beneath a new gap in her chainmail, but she showed no sign that she noticed the wound. The two Wardens had swiftly taken down another four of their opponents, leaving six, including the two newly freed prisoners, who had armed themselves with weapons from their fallen companions and entered the fray.

She tried to select a new target, but the combatants were too closely grouped, moving too quickly, and as she watched, the dog barreled into the crowd like a ball rolling through a group of ninepins, bursting through the other side on top of his chosen target.

"Damnation!" Casting an envious glance at the pulses of magical energy that flew unerringly from Morrigan's staff, she let the bow fall to the ground, drew her daggers and charged down the slope. Talia was the closest, and Leliana angled her way in, her eyes fixed on a swordsman who was keeping himself just out of Talia's vision, hiding himself in the blind spot created by her shield, waiting for an opening.

She realized her mistake – she should have announced herself – a split second before the Warden's shield slammed into her, sending her tumbling to the ground. Through the white starbursts that suddenly filled her vision, she caught a brief glimpse of Talia's face, wide eyed with surprise and sudden recognition, heard an oath that the girl's parents would surely not have approved of, and then she was gone, spinning away to deal with the swordsman.

Doggedly ignoring the flare of protest from her battered ribs, Leliana pushed herself to her feet and darted back in, giving Talia plenty of space and flanking one of Alistair's opponents, driving one dagger low into the back, skewering a kidney, then bringing the other around and across the bared throat when his back arched in agony. She twisted away, found the dog with his teeth buried in the throat of one bandit, Alistair knocking aside the sword of another and burying his own blade in his foe's chest, and Talia gutting one of the two freed prisoners. The other was frozen in place, sword raised high, his skin frost-white and glittering; an instant later, a glowing bolt shattered the figure, sending chunks of frozen flesh hurtling in all directions.

As quickly as that, it was done. "I told you to stay on the bluff!" Talia snapped, eyes sparking with vexation. Her face was flushed, but the manic energy of combat was quickly fading from it, the somber weariness flowing back in to take its place.

Leliana felt her own temper rise, pushing aside the apology she had been about to offer. "If I could have gotten a clear shot, I would have," she retorted. "What did you want me to do, watch and take bets while I waited for an opening?"

Talia glared at her; she returned the gaze with a level one of her own, refusing to be cowed, and after several tense seconds, the Warden's ire passed. She gave Leliana a curt nod and turned away, letting her shield slide from her arm and kneeling to run her hands over the dog, checking him for injuries.

"She'll apologize later, after she's calmed down," Alistair told her in a low voice, using the tunic from one of the bandits to clean his blade before returning it to its sheath. "She's always testy right after a fight. When you're fighting alongside someone using a shield, it's best if you don't come up on their blind side, by the way."

"Thank you." She gave him a thin smile, feeling the fool again, though his words had been kindly spoken. She'd never fought with a companion who used a shield; seldom had she fought with any companions at all, but she knew better than to charge into a melee without calling out, particularly when her allies barely knew her. "I'll try to remember that." Her bruised ribs would be reminding her for some time to come, she suspected.

"Are you hurt?" he asked. He had a received a few nicks and cuts, but appeared largely unscathed.

"Only my pride," she replied with a rueful smile.

"You would do well to remember that elfroot has a limited growing season," Morrigan was grumbling as she strode down from the bluff, already searching through her pack. "Unless you start paying a bit more attention to blocking your opponents while you are carving pieces out of them, our supplies will run out."

"Just put a bandage on it, then," Talia replied indifferently, probing at the gash on her arm with a bemused expression, as though she didn't quite remember receiving it. The witch glared at her, swatted her hand away and began applying a healing poultice to the wound.

"And when it becomes infected and requires even more care? Do not tell me how to heal, and I will try not to tell you how to fight, though 'twill require considerable biting of my tongue."

"You'll forgive me if I don't hold my breath?" Talia stared past her to the qunari, who was watching them with no more fear than he had shown of the bandits, though the look of contempt had been exchanged for one of appraisal that Talia matched. "What shall we do with him?"

Morrigan followed her gaze. "Either grant him a quick death or release him," she advised crisply, "but qunari are reputed to be fearsome warriors. He could prove a useful ally."

"Yes. Very handy if we ever find ourselves surrounded by hostile farmholders." Alistair was clearly unconvinced.

"Tis likely that the ignorant peasants attacked him first," Morrigan replied, something bitter glinting in her eyes. "That is the way of 'civilized' men, I have found: seeking to destroy what they do not understand."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't he the one that did the destroying?"

Leliana found herself torn. "It has not been proven that he was the murderer," she murmured. "He has never answered the charges against him."

"Does he even understand them?" Morrigan retorted, looking irritated to have Leliana agreeing with her, even in a roundabout way. "Or is it known whether he speaks the Common Tongue?"

Talia's dark eyes shifted between the three of them, deciding, her fingers drifting over the dog's blood-matted fur. "Only one way to find out, I guess," she said at last, turning and approaching the cage.


	3. Control

It was true that Morrigan had long been curious about what other humans were like. From the time that she had been old enough to wander (which had been an early age, indeed), she had crept through the Wilds, first in her own form and later in the guise of one of the many beasts whose shapes she had learned to assume. The villages of the Chasind Wilders had been the closest, but they were a simple and superstitious people, barely a step removed from the animals that they hunted, and once she had learned the elemental spells of their shamans, she had moved further afield to the edges of the Wilds and the 'civilized' settlements there.

The inhabitants of the tiny villages and farm holds, and the travelers upon the roads that connected them, had been much more interesting to observe, though their behaviors were frequently incomprehensible, their motives defying all logic and reason. As she had grown older, she had dared to move among them, hoping to learn from interaction what she could not from observation. As baffling as humans were to watch, however, being in their midst: talking with them, attempting to trade, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible and still learn, had been initially both terrifying and exhilarating, but had quickly become frustrating and irritating.

They _talked_ incessantly! At first, she had believed the inane babble a ploy on the part of males who were intent on bedding her, but she soon realized that the women engaged in it even more voraciously, and that it seemed to be a purpose unto itself. Whole days could pass with out a single word passing between she and Flemeth, and the words that were spoken conveyed useful - often vital – information. How in blazes was she to learn from these people when she was forever having to sift through the torrent of words to separate the grain from the chaff?

And the touching! Hugging, handshakes, dozens of contacts that they seemed unable to converse without engaging in. Women that she had just met thought nothing of touching her cheek while admiring her eyes, or placing their hands at her waist while eying her hips for broodmare potential. At least with the men, she was permitted to reject their roaming hands, but if she took offense at some goodwife petting and patting at her, _she_ would be the one looked at with suspicion and hostility.

Add to that the fact that very few people seemed to care for having their shortcomings and foibles pointed out to them and Morrigan always found herself both exhausted and relieved when she ended these forays. Curiosity inevitably drew her back, however, along with the knowledge that she could leave any time that she chose. That freedom had been the main reason that she continued to return, and she had assumed that such freedom would always be hers. Nothing in her upbringing had prepared her for being trapped in the company of a horde.

Perhaps 'horde' was excessive when used to describe four other people and one infernally inquisitive canine, but for one who had quite happily gone weeks at a time without seeing or speaking to another soul, she might as well be roaming the countryside with the entire populace of Denerim in noisy tow.

At least Talia had the sense to set up camp well outside of Lothering. The town had been crowded, stinking, noisy, filled with sheep milling about in mindless fear as they awaited slaughter, bleating for someone to save them. The scene was everything that Morrigan loathed about humanity, right down to the probing eyes of the templars, so smugly self righteous in their shining plate armor, looking right past one of the dread maleficarum without even recognizing her as such. Part of her itched, as it always did at such times, to make herself known, just to see the fear and confusion that would take root when the sheep realized that one of their dreaded wolves had been stalking among them unseen.

Flemeth had never been able to purge her of such perverse impulses, but she had stressed - forcefully, on occasion - the importance of not heeding them. Survival was everything, and while she could have undoubtedly escaped their bumbling attempts at capture in the Korcari Wilds, their searching would have been disruptive, perhaps even forcing Flemeth to relocate her hut, if they happened too close. Morrigan had experienced her mother's anger over lesser transgressions enough to have no desire to see what she would do if she were so greatly inconvenienced. It took even less will to resist the temptation now. She was no longer an impulsive girl, and while she could easily fade back into the Wilds and leave her new 'companions' to bear the brunt of the villagers' dimwitted wrath, to do so would mark the end of an opportunity that would not return in her lifetime.

She might have to tolerate the stinking rabble, but that certainly did not extend to cohabiting with them. If Talia had chosen to stay at the rickety inn, Morrigan had fully intended to make her way out of town at nightfall and sleep as a wolf beneath the stars. Even the relative spaciousness of camp was too much, and she had withdrawn as far as possible to set up her own site, even lighting a separate fire. From there, she watched and listened as the others engaged in their social rituals.

Mating rituals, perhaps? Alistair was still fawning over the Chantry wench, who was currently assaulting the peace of the night air with some inane composition wrung from the gut strings of the lute that she toted around. That one would bear watching; her sickly sweet mien fairly reeked of artifice and deception…no one could be so relentlessly cheerful and pious unless they were out committing murders and dismemberments by night to let off steam. Her earnest pontifications upon redemption and atonement had been so painfully transparent that she might as well have had the words 'repentant sinner' carved into her forehead. Morrigan had expected that the buffoon would be taken in by the façade, but Talia had seemingly accepted it without question, as well.

She shook her head in bemused disgust. The girl was an interesting study in contrasts. She killed with a refreshing ruthlessness, but she was entirely too prone to her berserker rages. Control was crucial to survival, and while she was even more deadly when gripped by the bloodlust, she was reckless, as well, striking out without regard to her own safety. Once out of battle, she swung between coolly competent and practical when dealing with others to all but debilitated beneath the weight of her pain when they finally stopped for the night. She withdrew at such times, but Morrigan could still all but hear the lamb crying out for its lost flock.

 _No._ She shook her head again, thoughtfully this time. No lamb was so deadly. A wolf cub, then. Morrigan could sense the potential in the girl; with the proper guidance, if she learned to ignore the softer emotions that tore at her and harness her hate, she could be formidable, indeed. It would take a delicate touch, though; despite her weaker traits, she was no fool, but she so desperately _wanted_ to trust, hungered for something to fill the void left by the loss of her family, even as the rawness of her wounds made her shy away from anything that might touch them.

Morrigan cocked her head, watching with interest as Talia emerged from her tent and approached their newest comrade, her expression purposeful; evidently, she had recovered from her earlier fit of evening melancholy. The qunari was working a slow set of forms with a massive two-handed blade that, in the grasp of nearly any other male, would be a sure indication of overcompensation. Where Sten was concerned, however, Morrigan wasn't quite sure. Oh, she was sure enough that he would not feel compelled to make up for anatomical inadequacies with weaponry, but from what she had read about qunari, she strongly suspected that he would not _need_ to overcompensate for anything.

_Very interesting, indeed._

"Does the armor fit?" Talia stopped a short distance away, watching him appraisingly, her doubts still writ large on her face. She had come close to killing him in the cage, and his stoic taciturnity had not helped his case. As much as it galled Morrigan to admit it, the Chantry wench's bleating about atonement had likely swayed the girl more than Morrigan's more practical arguments. At least she had the memory of Alistair's apoplectic reaction to savor; the fool had been dead set against the notion, but as always, had acquiesced to the junior Warden's opinion like the herd animal that he was.

"Well enough." Sten paused, his lavender eyes regarding the girl impassively. She was tall, for a woman, but he still towered over her by a head and a half, with massive shoulders and thickly muscled arms and legs. Getting him suitably garbed and armored would have been difficult enough if his size had been the only consideration. Add to that the fact that the Revered Mother had flatly refused to allow him back into Lothering, and his outfitting had taken up most of the afternoon as Talia and Alistair went to and fro from the few merchants in the town, fitting and returning armor and clothes. "I am in your debt, Warden."

Talia nodded, chewing at her lower lip, clearly working herself up to something, and Morrigan did not miss the fact that she had not yet removed her armor. "Why did you kill those people?" she demanded suddenly. Points to her for not beating about the bush, at least, but there was a decided edge to her voice that suggested that she was acting on emotion, rather than any rational reasoning.

Sten's expression never changed. "My reasons are not relevant. They are dead. My motivations for killing them do not change that fact."

"I want to know why," Talia pressed, her jaw set stubbornly.

The lute gave a final, discordant twang and stilled. From the corner of her eye, Morrigan could see Alistair and the Chantry wench watching the confrontation intently. The hound had also abandoned the stick that he had been gnawing at, his deepset eyes locked on the qunari, as cold and dark as the water beneath winter ice.

"My reasons are also none of your concern," Sten informed Talia, still displaying no more emotion than if she had inquired about the weather.

"I got you out of that cage," she told him, the edge in her voice growing sharper.

"And I swore to follow you, to seek my atonement in helping you turn back the Blight." He had lowered his sword, his stance seemingly passive, but only a fool would consider him unthreatening. "That was the bargain between us. Nothing was said about discussing the reasons that I do anything."

"They were farmers, Sten." Talia's voice rose, anger blazing up in her eyes. "Unarmed, untrained farmers. There were children among them!"

Leliana and Alistair were on their feet, plainly weighing whether or not to step in. The dog had shifted into a crouch that might look lazy to the untrained eye. Morrigan watched and waited.

"You knew this when you chose to release me." Sten sounded mildly irritated, nothing more. "If you have decided that my atonement is to be death, the choice is yours to make. Kill me, Warden, or leave me be."

Talia glared at him for a long moment. "No," she snapped, spinning away and stalking to her tent, swatting aside Alistair's hand like a fly. She shoved her helmet onto her head and took up her shield, sweeping her sword from its sheath as she returned. "But I intend to find out how well you can do against someone who can fight back. Fight me. Now!" The last word was a shout as she launched herself against the qunari.

"Talia, no!" Leliana shouted in horror, but the warrior paid her no mind.

 _The little fool._ Morrigan rose slowly, her eyes never leaving the two combatants, bringing her cone of frost spell to the fore of her mind. The qunari was intriguing, but Morrigan's task required the survival of at least one of the Grey Wardens. A specific one, unfortunately, and she had no illusions about how long she would remain in Alistair's company if Talia were to die.

Sten brought his sword up in a smooth motion, blocking Talia's blade, then twisted to the side to allow her to sweep past. She recovered quickly, attacking again…and again…and again, moving around the giant, darting in to strike, ducking back out. She wasn't fighting blindly, at least, and she had the sense to not try to use her shield as a bludgeon against what would be little different from a brick wall, but although she was admittedly good, Sten was a seasoned qunari warrior, one of a race that had few equals in battle.

He deflected her attacks easily, the greatsword moving in controlled arcs to intercept Talia's lighter blade. His feet barely moved, turning him to follow her as she worked her way from side to side. His own attacks were no less controlled; he could have overwhelmed her in seconds, but the blows that he delivered were precisely aimed and calibrated. Talia could defend against them, but she had to work to do it.

She broke off after several minutes, panting. "You're not really trying, are you?" The anger had faded from her eyes, to be replaced by a keen interest and more than a little awe.

Sten was not even breathing hard. "Warden, if I were trying, you would have been dead no less than half a dozen times by now." Not a hint of boasting; simply stating facts.

Talia's teeth flashed in that feral grin - the only time that Morrigan ever saw the girl truly smile was when she fought - and she went on the offensive again. There was a subtle difference to her attacks now, however: she was less intense, more focused, watching every move that the qunari made, adjusting her tactics with each new approach, the clash of their blades ringing in the night air. Neither she nor Sten made a sound, apart from the soft hiss of their breath and the occasional grunt when a blow connected. Morrigan relaxed, settling back down beside her fire and noticing the other observers doing the same.

After several more minutes, the contest ended; Talia's legs were trembling visibly as she stepped away and bowed to Sten, and her hair was damp with sweat when she pulled her helmet off, but her expression was one of weary satisfaction, more peaceful than Morrigan had seen since the first time they had met in the Wilds.

"Thank you," she said simply, bowing to the qunari.

Sten returned the gesture with a solemn nod, drawing deep, slow breaths through his nose. "The instruction of the young is the duty of every experienced warrior."

"Will you teach me more?" Talia wanted to know.

"I will." The odd, violet eyes regarded her sternly. "You show promise, but you rely too much upon your speed. If you are ever pinned down, unable to move freely, you will be cut to pieces."

Talia nodded slowly, eyes thoughtful as she returned her sword to its sheath. "I'll work on that, then," she promised. "Will you teach me to fight with a greatsword, too?"

"No." Sten's response did not encourage dissent. "A weapon like this makes use of strength and mass. You do not possess enough of either to wield it effectively. You have skill with the weapons that you have chosen. Focus upon them; you will benefit more, and be of greater use to the group."

She seemed less accepting of that pronouncement, but she nodded and bowed again before turning and making her way back to her tent, letting her shield and helmet slide to the ground and beginning to remove her armor. Morrigan turned back to the fire, pondering what she had witnessed as her hands began assembling the items that she would need to make healing poultices. Gone were the days when one or two in her hip pouch would suffice, but the task had long ago become a rote one, freeing her mind to follow more interesting trains of thought.

It seemed that it was fighting, rather than killing, that gave Talia her greatest satisfaction, the bloodlust merely the byproduct of a frustrated need for vengeance that would lash out where it could. In more peaceful times, the girl might never have been more than a curiosity on the tourney circuit, but circumstances had spun together like the clouds that swirled and built into thunderheads over the Wilds each spring, boiling into a storm with this woman-child at its center. The path that she took would shape the fate of multitudes, and Morrigan could help to determine that path. An intriguing possibility apart from her primary goal.

"Mind if I watch?" She was not overly surprised to look up and find Talia standing beside her, barefoot and clad only in a lightweight tunic and trews. The girl was rarely idle in camp, either gathering firewood, tending to her weapons and armor, talking with Alistair about the Grey Wardens or watching while Morrigan cooked or crafted the herbs gathered during the day into the potions and salves that would be consumed all too swiftly.

Morrigan knew well enough what her reasons were. Idleness lead to thought, and thought to pain. Talia would likely be just as happy to fight from the moment she left her bedroll until it was time to return to it. Morrigan had expected her to retire after her match with Sten, but it seemed that she was not yet exhausted enough to sleep.

"Would it matter if I did?" She kept her voice tart; being overly welcoming might raise suspicion, and besides that, she had no interest in going to the trouble of maintaining a pretense of friendliness. Far easier to be as she was: aloof and blunt, willing to give voice to hard truths that others shied away from. Get them all used to swallowing enough of those, and the lies would never be noticed until long after Morrigan had achieved her objective and was gone.

"It would to me," Talia said with a shrug, turning around.

Morrigan rolled her eyes and huffed out a long-suffering sigh. "Sit and watch, if that is what you wish. I care not." She fixed the dog with a glare, and he immediately stopped crawling toward them. "You, however, are _not_ welcome." Two nights previous, he had paraded through camp with his head high, waving a set of her undergarments from his jaws like a pennant. "I prefer that my belongings stay in my pack."

He whined, giving her what he no doubt considered his most winsome look, but she was not to be won over, and he plopped to the ground a few yards away, watching them mournfully.

"He didn't mean any harm," Talia said as she seated herself cross-legged beside Morrigan. "I think he likes you."

"Just what I need," Morrigan muttered. "If he truly likes me, he can show it best by leaving me be."

"I'll tell him," the warrior promised, "but they don't always see things the way we do. They're smart, but they're not human."

"You might ask him how he would like life as a cat." Morrigan deliberately raised her voice, staring across the fire at the mutt. He sat up with an alarmed chuff and backed away slowly, sulking a path to Talia's tent.

Talia snorted softly, and when Morrigan looked at the girl, she could see the faintest hint of a smile ghosting over her face, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. "I think you have his attention."

"I hope so." She turned her attention back to her herb-craft, sorting out the elfroot leaves and placing them in her small wooden mortar.

"Think I found some more today." Talia pulled a handful of wilted greenery from her belt pouch and held it out. "This is elfroot, isn't it?"

Morrigan accepted the offering, eying the plants. "It is. I…thank you." The small courtesies had been among the most difficult things for her to learn. When someone offered you a gift, you were to thank them, even when you knew perfectly well that they only did so in hopes of gaining something for themselves. It was so much simpler to just barter: something for something, where each party knew what was expected of them. This giving of gifts entailed too much unknown obligation, some nebulous debt to the giver that could be called in at any time.

At least the motivation for this gift was clear. "No reason you should be the only one keeping our stock up, especially when I'm the one who needs them most often." The girl had the grace to look sheepish.

"Nice to know that you are aware of your shortcomings." Morrigan added the new plants to the mortar and began the process of crushing them into pulp, watching Talia watch her from the corner of her eye. Her silences never lasted long; she could not bear the thoughts that flowed into them.

"Do you think he really killed them?" she asked suddenly. "All those people?"

"The qunari? I've little doubt that he did just that. They are a formidable race, who look at the world very differently than do humans." She paused, rolling the pestle against the sides of the mortar, watching the pale green leaves darken and bruise as their juices were released. "You think he did not? Is that why you did not kill him outright?"

"I…don't know," Talia admitted, drawing her knees up to her chest and resting her chin on them. "I think he did it…he says that he did, but something doesn't feel right. He doesn't act like a murderer."

She managed not to roll her eyes at the girl's naiveté. "And what, pray tell, does a 'murderer' act like? Shifty-eyed and tricky? Prostrate with remorse? Do you expect him to walk in his sleep with a bloodstained weapon, muttering to the spirits of his victims?"

"No." Talia shook her head, her cheeks flushing. "But people do things for reasons. I think that if he was the type who kills for the joy of it, it would show."

"You seem to enjoy killing well enough, though one would not guess it from seeing you at other times." Such bluntness was a gamble, but Morrigan was rewarded by seeing Talia flinch visibly and look guilty, rather than angry. "What about it gives you such satisfaction?"

"It's not the killing," Talia protested, then faltered. "At least - it didn't used to be. I just loved to fight, and I was good at it. Better than the boys my age. Even Fergus had to work to beat me. Now, though…" She fell silent, staring into the flames, their light burnishing her cheeks with a golden hue.

Morrigan had almost given up on further response when she stirred, shaking her head slowly. "It's different now. The fighting feels good, but not the way it did before. When I'm fighting, I'm not thinking about…other things. Not feeling. I can almost forget why I'm here, but then sometimes I look at the one I'm fighting against and see Howe's face, or Loghain's." She dropped her forehead to her knees. "It all crashes in then," she said in a low voice. "That's when the killing feels good, and I just keep going until there's nothing else to kill. After it fades, though, I haven't killed Howe, Loghain or any of the rest that I really want dead. Just bandits or darkspawn. I can barely believe that I'm the one who did the killing; it's like something that happened in a dream."

"Berserker states are not uncommon," Morrigan observed, "but those who give themselves over to battle rage without restraint generally have short lives."

Talia shrugged, looking untroubled by the pronouncement. "My family's dead. Sometimes all that I want to do is join them."

Morrigan looked at her sharply, morbidly certain that she was about to start crying, but her eyes were dry and empty, her face drawn and weary.

"If you truly wish to avenge them, you'll not do so by getting yourself killed in one of these minor skirmishes," she told the girl flatly. "Learn to harness your anger and hate, control it, instead of letting it control you." She leaned forward, her eyes holding Talia's, her words measured. "A Grey Warden who has ended a Blight has no small amount of influence. You could ask for Howe's head on a silver platter, and it would be given you before the words had finished leaving your mouth."

Something hungry flickered briefly in those brown eyes. "And if I want to kill him myself?"

"Then have him brought to you alive. None would question you." She sat back with a studied calm. "The choice is yours, of course. If you truly wish to die, 'tis not my place to stop you."

"No, but -" Her face hardened. "They deserve to be avenged. I can't let Howe get away with what he did. I'll try to control myself better." She fell silent again, but made no move to leave, and Morrigan turned back to her preparation of the poultices.

"Will you show me how to make them?"

"Tis hardly necessary," Morrigan replied dismissively. "The task is a simple one that I can manage easily on my own."

"But if you were to get hurt, someone else might need to make them for you," Talia persisted, adding with a bit too much innocence, "I suppose Alistair could give it a try."

The ruse was almost laughably transparent, but Morrigan decided to give it to her anyway. There _was_ a certain amount of logic to the request. "Oh, all right," she conceded, more reluctantly that she actually felt. "But if I ever fall so low as to require that fool's aid, I would prefer that you simply put me out of my misery."

"Agreed," Talia replied, with what looked suspiciously like the hint of another smile on her lips as she shifted closer to Morrigan, taking care not to crowd her.

"You begin by crushing the leaves of the plants like so…"


	4. Night Watch

The fire had burned down to a bed of coals, the night breeze sending ripples of ebon and orange across their surface and the occasional spray of sparks rising as the wood popped in the heat, pale smoke curling lazily skyward. The camp was silent, save for the snores emanating from Alistair's tent.

Leliana completed her latest circuit of the camp, stifling a yawn as she approached the firepit. It was still early enough in the spring that the nights grew chilly, and rain earlier that day had left the ground damp and water dripping from the trees overhead. She would sit beside the fire for a few minutes to warm herself, then get up again before she grew too drowsy. Her steps faltered when she saw the figure already seated on the fallen log that Alistair and Sten had dragged over. She hadn't seen her since their watch had begun, two hours earlier.

Talia turned her head as the bard approached, her expression neutral. "Sit," the Warden offered, shifting over to make room on the log as Leliana prepared to settle on the ground. "I don't bite."

Leliana managed a smile as she seated herself on the log, still unsure how to reconcile the fierce, brash warrior who led them by day with the quiet and serious young woman who camped with them each night. In the days since they had left Lothering for good, she had seen much of what Alistair had spoken of for herself. Talia fought as though she had been born with her sword in her hand, with a deadly grace that was hypnotic to watch, and she seemed utterly fearless, never failing to square off against the strongest of their opponents in combat. She was capable of caution, though, and she took her responsibility as the de facto leader of the group seriously. Yesterday, she had led them in silence around a group of at least thirty darkspawn: hurlocks and genlocks, with several emissaries in their number, though she had plainly been itching for a fight.

But though she was cautious with the lives of her companions, she was all but indifferent to her own welfare, particularly when the battle rage took her. Deadly grace turned into implacable fury, and she would throw herself against three and four foes at once, heedless of the damage that she took. Leliana had seen plenty of the 'crazy' in the last few days, most recently earlier that afternoon.

"How are your ribs?"

Talia reached her hand around her torso, probing gingerly. "Sore," she admitted with a grimace, looking more irritated with herself than anything.

"Being thrown into a tree tends to have that effect," Leliana chided her, trying to keep her tone light. No easy task, with the memory of the heartstopping fight so fresh in her mind. "What in the world possessed you to charge an ogre without your sword?"

Talia shrugged. "My own fault for dropping it. I couldn't let the thing eat Alistair, could I? Not even a darkspawn deserves that kind of indigestion."

Leliana looked at the warrior in surprise, but there was not even a hint of mirth in her expression. "Do my ears deceive me, or did you just make a joke?"

Talia gave her a sidelong glance, a trace of a smile touching her lips, there and gone as quickly as a nighthawk flitting across the face of the moon. "You don't think that armor wouldn't cause indigestion? A couple more weeks of him not airing it out, and we'll be able to send it off to fight without him." She snorted softly. "Fergus used to –"

Her words cut off as neatly as if sliced through by her sword, and pain washed over her face, then faded, leaving her features set in a wooden mask.

"Your brother?" Leliana guessed, feeling a flutter of trepidation. It was the unwitting awakening of memories of her brother earlier today that had triggered the berserker rage when they had stumbled over the darkspawn shortly after. At night, such subjects would not garner a violent response, but the hurt was no less. "I'm sorry."

"It's done," Talia said in a dead voice. "Anyway, it gave Sten the chance to finish it off from behind." She had wasted no time incorporating the qunari's formidable skills into her tactics, but as audacious as her charge had been (against a beast more than twice her height and _after_ her sword had been knocked from her grasp) the look of wild glee on her face had been terrifying. Leliana could still swear that the girl had been _laughing_ as a massive arm had sent her flying through the air. "It's dead and Alistair's safe. That's all that matters."

"No, that's _not_ all that matters," Leliana scolded her earnestly. She reached out to cover Talia's hand with her own, feeling that hand curl into a fist, rejecting the contact. "Not to Alistair, not to the rest of us. Did you see how worried he was about you?"

"He didn't need to be," Talia muttered, pulling her hand away from Leliana's and shifting sideways slightly, eyes fixed on the shimmering coals. "I was fine."

"You were coughing up blood," the bard shot back, maintaining the distance that the Warden had put between them.

"I'm not now," Talia replied defensively, clearly uncomfortable at being the focus of this talk. As soon as camp was made each night, the warrior faded, leaving behind a tired and wounded soul who seemed vaguely surprised to have survived the day. She stayed near her companions, but kept a barrier between them, needing the comfort of their presence, but afraid or unwilling to seek more. In conversation, she kept the subject turned away from herself with questions, her dark eyes intent on whoever she spoke to, absorbing what she saw and heard, using it as a buffer against her pain.

She had already driven Sten halfway to distraction with her questions about the qunari, though he steadfastly refused to discuss the murders that had resulted in his imprisonment. If the fighting during the day had been light, she would coax him into a sparring session, an activity that they both preferred to talking. She would frequently draw Alistair into the matches, as well, and she was clearly the most comfortable in the young man's company, talking to him frequently of the Grey Wardens, trying to piece together some clear picture of just what it was that the two of them were supposed to be and do.

He was such a sweet boy, awkward and funny, and nearly as lost as Talia, though he tried not to let it show. He cared about the younger Warden, and his jokes, as abominable as they could be, could frequently get a laugh out of her when nothing else could pierce her moods. Ostagar had bound them together irreversibly in a camaraderie as old as war itself, and Leliana found herself envying the unspoken communication that ran between them at times: whole conversations passing in the questioning tilt of a head, a nod or a shrug and a few obscure gestures. They would make such an adorable couple, but while she could not quite tell if Alistair's affection for Talia was more than brotherly, Talia herself was all business, letting him a bit further inside her barriers than she did the others, but no closer than that.

And Morrigan. What _was_ she up to? It might be uncharitable to harbor such suspicion, but old instincts died hard, and everything about the witch screamed of some ulterior motive. Perhaps it was only the fact that the woman made no attempt whatsoever to be friendly, and generally went out of her way to make certain that the others knew just how low her opinion of them was, though she had the sense not to offend Sten. Oddly enough, Talia seemed to trust her, seeming unbothered by the sharpness of her tongue. She was learning herbcraft from her, a useful enough pastime, but Leliana couldn't help wondering uneasily about what else the witch might be telling her during her lessons.

Talia rarely spoke to Leliana, for the simple reason that the bard would not do what the others did: let the girl wall herself away behind her grief. Such pain made her own heart ache in sympathy, and the promise that she had made to the Maker compelled her to try to ease that pain, to lance the festering wound that Talia kept so fiercely protected.

She tried again, knowing that Talia was likely to simply walk away soon, as she almost invariably did when Leliana pressed her. She never got angry, but simply drew her wall ever more tightly around herself and withdrew behind it. "Talia, we're your friends. We care about you –"

"Why did you want me to tie you up?"

The question took her by surprise, and for a moment, she had no idea what Talia was talking about. "What?"

"In Lothering," Talia reminded her. "I told you I'd tie you up, to keep you from following us, and you acted as though you wanted me to. Why?"

"Oh," Leliana murmured lamely. "That." _You're changing the subject,_ she wanted to say, but she knew full well that was precisely what Talia intended. On the other hand, she hadn't walked away yet. "It was just a – a joke. I was trying to lighten the mood a bit." She winced as she said it. It sounded so frivolous, given the slaughter that had preceded the conversation, but easier to say that than admit that she had been trying to manipulate Talia.

"But why did Alistair get so embarrassed?" she wanted to know, dark eyes guileless. It might be a ploy to draw Leliana off track, but she clearly hadn't been feigning her ignorance on the subject.

"Ah…he just…" Maker's breath, but the girl had knocked her off balance _again_! "Some people find it pleasurable to be tied up at…certain times," she began again, trying for a balance between directness and delicacy. This was the daughter of a noble house, after all.

"You mean during sex?" Talia regarded her with a frank curiosity, showing not a hint of either embarrassment or titillation. "So, you like that, then?"

"It's…not quite my cup of tea," she admitted, feeling a blush heating her cheeks. She had spoken of her life in Orlais as vaguely as possible, but bards and minstrels had reputations in certain areas that spanned all nations. "Still, there's no harm in it, as long as one's partner is agreeable." Her duties as a bard had required her to adapt to the tastes of her targets on occasion. There had been a certain Orlesian nobleman who had a talent for bondage that bordered on the exquisite, but he was long dead…

 _Never mind._ Her old life and the sins that had filled it were behind her. She walked the Maker's path now, and to waste time looking back could only cause her to stumble. "It was, as I said, an attempt at a jest, and a poor one, at that."

_My Maker, know my heart;_

_Take from me a life of sorrow,_

_Lift me from a world of pain,_

_Judge me worthy of Your endless pride._

The words of the Chant soothed her, as they had from the first night that she had stumbled into the Chantry, muddy and bruised, bedraggled and frightened and lost. The brown eyes watched her thoughtfully, the faintest hint of compassion visible in them, as though she had seen the sadness that Leliana tried to hide. Maybe she had; she seemed to miss little of whatever she focused her attention on.

"It was funny seeing Alistair blush," she said at last, that fleeting smile of hers coming and going again. "You even made Morrigan laugh."

 _She'd likely have laughed more if I'd set him ablaze,_ Leliana thought, but did not say. Talia faced a difficult enough task without dealing with dissension in the ranks of those who followed her.

_O Creator, see me kneel:_

_For I walk only where You would bid me,_

_Stand only in places You have blessed,_

_Sing only the words You place in my throat._

"You never did tell me about the vision that made you want to join us." Another change of subject, but one that she could perhaps turn to her purpose. Brego loped out of the darkness, giving Leliana an amiable nudge in passing before putting his burly head on Talia's knee. She scratched at his ears with the gentle expression that she wore only for him.

"You hadn't asked." She had expected Alistair to have done so before now, but had been more than a little relieved that he hadn't. Kind or not, he still looked at her a bit oddly when he thought he was unobserved. "Do you believe in the Maker?"

Talia shrugged. "I suppose that I do. Mother Mallol instructed me in the Chant, but I was never what you would call an attentive student."

Leliana cocked her head. "I find that hard to believe," she teased with a slight smile.

Another shrug. "The practice yard was always more interesting to me, but I did learn some. I liked the tales of Andraste taking up the sword and fighting against the Imperium, though likely not for the reasons that Mother Mallol wanted me to like them." A veil dropped over her face, and she gently pushed Brego away. "Once more around the perimeter," she urged him. He chuffed at her and trotted away.

"Andraste was a brave woman, both in battle and in faith," Leliana said softly. It wasn't difficult to guess what the Mother's fate had been; had Talia witnessed it?

"You believe she was real, then? That she did everything that it says in the Chant? I've heard some say that the founders of the Chantry just made her up, or exaggerated her deeds to strengthen belief in the Chant."

Leliana shook her head. "I know that she was real," she said earnestly. "I have felt the Maker's presence, His love. I know that His bride was once flesh and blood, that she fought and died to spread His truth." She paused to draw breath, sure that she would find Talia looking at her with that same look that Alistair wore on occasion, but the brown eyes simply watched her without judging, waiting for her to continue.

"I was dreaming," she began, closing her eyes and remembering. "There was an impenetrable darkness, so dense that it seemed to have weight. And a noise, a terrible sound like nothing I had ever heard…like the voices of all the godless who have ever lived, crying for the blood of the innocent." Her hands curled into fists as she remembered the terror that the howling had kindled in her heart.

"I…I stood on a high peak and watched from above as the darkness grew and consumed everything, even the sun. When the blackness swallowed the last of the sun's light, I fell, and it drew me in, as well." The memory was too strong, and her eyes flew open, seeking first the reassuring glow of the coals, then Talia's face, waiting for the derision, the dismissal.

"Sounds like you dreamed about the Blight," Talia observed quietly, "but what about a dream like that would make you want to stand against it?"

"The dream was terrifying," Leliana admitted, "but when I awoke, I went out to the Chantry garden. There was a rosebush there, tucked into a corner and long dead. No one had ever gotten around to pulling it up, but it was dead: grey and twisted, the leaves brown and brittle, and there were no buds upon it. But that morning, it had flowered: a single, perfect rose, bright red in the midst of all the grey and brown, alive in the midst of death."

She closed her eyes again, smiling as she drew strength from the memory of the blossom: how the soft petals had glistened with dew and the sweet fragrance filled her senses with its promise. "It was as if the Maker stretched out His hand to say, 'Even in the midst of this darkness, there is hope and beauty. Have faith.'"

She felt the log shift beneath her and opened her eyes to find Talia standing, mouth working soundlessly and eyes burning with emotion. _Oh, Maker._ Whatever reaction she had been expecting, this was not it.

"I…saw my father's guts spilled from his body," Talia ground out at last, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. "Howe's dogs cut the throat of my brother's wife and split his son's head on the stones of the floor. My mother –" Her voice broke here, her eyes going bright. Leliana stepped forward, her hand outstretched, but Talia backed away quickly, balling her right hand into a fist and driving it down into the meat of her own thigh hard enough to bruise. She clenched her teeth, sucking slow breaths in and out, but when she began again, her voice was low and steady.

"My mother fought at my side like the battlemaid she had been. She could have escaped with Duncan and I, but she would not leave my father. She stayed…and died to cover our escape. Tell me," she went on, her lips twisted into a bitter mockery of a smile. "Where is the hope in that? Where is the beauty?"

"In the love." Leliana knew in her heart that what she said was true, but the words still tasted like ashes in her mouth, sounded like stale platitudes in her ears. "Your mother loved you. She gave her life to save yours. Your father loved you as well, and you loved them both. They live on in that love, in your heart."

"And what if I don't _want_ to live on?" Talia inquired, her voice raw with the same emotion that had been so painfully evident when she had spoken to Loghain's men about Howe. "I was given no choice! I would have stayed and fought with them, died with them, but Duncan claimed me for the Wardens and they threw 'duty' in my face. I had to escape, they said, and bring word of Howe's treachery to Fergus and the King, so that he could be brought to justice." The ragged laugh that escaped her sounded like the cry of a wounded animal. "We all know how well _that_ went. Was that the Maker's plan, as well?"

"Evil is never His doing," Leliana replied, forcing her voice to remain calm and level, despite the realization that she had stumbled out of her depth. She was no Chantry scholar to discuss such matters with a torn and bleeding soul. "Men create such evil by turning from His will, but He can bring about good from tragedy, if we only trust in Him and let Him guide our paths."

"I'll find my own path," Talia shot back harshly. "Whichever one takes me to Rendon Howe's dead body the quickest. If that means turning back the Blight, I'll do it, but not for the Maker." Turning, she stalked away from the fireside, then paused, her shoulders sagging slightly.

"You should get some sleep," she said without looking around, her voice flat. "Brego and I can see out the rest of the watch."

Then she was gone, leaving Leliana alone beside the fire.


	5. Making Peace and Spilling Beans

Something had happened. Alistair had suspected it last night, when he had relieved Leliana on watch, but she had simply murmured something about being tired and ducked immediately into her tent. If Sten had any such suspicions regarding Talia, he kept them to himself, along with anything else that might resemble conversation. After a few attempts at engaging the giant in a comradely chat, he had given up and spent the remainder of the night patrolling, trying to ignore the way the clammy night air found every chink in his armor.

Not that it was all that much, as far as armor went. As a junior Grey Warden, he'd been well down on the armorer's list for outfitting, and the fighting at Ostagar, along with the days since, had taken their toll. He and Talia had both repaired what they could and cobbled together replacements from what they'd been able to scavenge along the way. He doubted that two Grey Wardens had ever looked less the part. He certainly didn't _feel_ it.

_Regardless of how you feel, you **are** a Grey Warden. And you have a duty to fulfill._

He could hear Duncan's voice as if the man stood beside him, could easily picture the stern look on his face as he delivered the admonition. Perhaps it should have made him feel better, stronger, but it just hurt. His entire life had been spent betwixt and between, belonging nowhere. Then, for a few shining months, he had truly been a part of something, accepted. A Grey Warden among his chosen brethren, with a mentor who had been everything that he had ever yearned for in a father. All gone in the space of a single night of betrayal and carnage.

Betwixt and between again. A Grey Warden in name - one of only two to survive Ostagar - and the senior Grey Warden, at that, with a Grey Warden's duty, but no real idea how to carry it out. Oh, they had the treaties that, in theory, should secure alliances with the Circle of Mages, the Dalish Elves and the Dwarves, but every time he tried to picture this ragtag bunch standing before the representatives of those groups, his imagination quickly supplied him with images of Sten putting his sharp new toy to work, Morrigan being recognized as an apostate and Leliana chirping about visions while he and Talia tried to convince one and all that they were indeed the Grey Wardens who were supposed to save Ferelden from the Blight.

And that was assuming that the pair of them didn't add to the chaos, by say, him freezing up and trying to recover with a joke that offended everyone within earshot and Talia pulling out her sword and -

They were sorely lacking in anything remotely resembling credibility, while the greatest living hero in the kingdom had publicly branded them traitors and regicides, which was why he was running for home…or at least, the closest thing he'd had to such a thing before joining the Wardens.

Arl Eamon was a good man. Alistair could see that now, his judgment no longer clouded by childish hurt or adolescent rebellion. The Arl of Redcliffe had always spoken highly of the Grey Wardens, and they had frequently been honored guests during Alistair's childhood. Surely he would not believe Loghain's version of the events in Ostagar. With his reputation behind them, they might stand a chance of forming the alliances they needed and gaining support from other members of the nobility, particularly those that had been friends of the Couslands. And with Cailan dead, Eamon would be a logical choice for the throne: respected and bound to the Theirin line by marriage. Definitely a more suitable candidate than -

_No. Not going to even think about that._ He was going to have to do more than think about it, he knew. He was going to have to tell them, tell _her_ , before they reached Redcliffe, because the issue would come up, and the Maker help him if she hadn't heard it from him first.

It wasn't going to happen right now, though. Not with Talia stalking at the head of the line with her face like a thundercloud. She'd packed up her tent and set off that morning before the rest of them had finished breaking camp, and she had yet to acknowledge that they had caught up with her, despite Morrigan's none-too-subtle carping about forced marches.

No, now was not the time to stroll up alongside her and casually say, _Nice day, isn't it? And by the way, I just happen to be the bastard son of King Maric and possibly a candidate for the throne._ But he was going to have to say _something_ , because he'd seen that look on her face before. If he hadn't talked her down before they crossed paths with something hostile, she'd start carving her way through whatever it happened to be without so much as a glance back to see if the rest of them were following her.

It might be nice if he knew what had happened, though. Shortening his stride, he dropped behind Sten, who passed him without pausing, behind Morrigan, ignoring the supercilious sneer that curled her lips, until he matched his steps to those of the last member of the party.

Leliana had trudged at the rear of the line since they had set out, her eyes fixed on the ground ahead of her. "Nice day, isn't it?" he offered after they had gone several steps in silence.

No response. Not that he really expected anything from such a brilliant opening line. _Bring on the bandits and darkspawn, just don't make me hold a conversation with a pretty girl._

"Why, yes, Alistair," he answered his own question in a falsetto butchery of an Orlesian accent, feeling his palms start to sweat. "A perfectly lovely day, particularly in the company of such a handsome, dashing and witty young man as yourself."

Morrigan made a gagging noise and increased her pace, but he saw a hint of a smile touching Leliana's lips. "It _is_ a nice day," she agreed, glancing up at him, "but I'm afraid I'm not very good company for a handsome, dashing and witty young man."

"Yes, well, we don't really have one of those around, anyway, so you'll just have to make do with me." He abandoned any further attempts at wit before he put his foot in his mouth up to the knee. "I just wanted to see how you were doing," he told her. "You've been pretty quiet all morning."

Her smile turned brittle. "Meaning that I am normally not?" She shook her head as he started to stammer an apology. "It's a failing of mine, but I think that I have talked enough for a while."

"You mean Talia?" Well, of course she did, but the pained expression that crossed her face confirmed it, as well as confirming that 'dashing' and 'witty' had no business being used in the same sentence as 'Alistair'. "Look, I'm sorry, but I really need to know what happened. If we get in a fight with Talia in the mood she's in now -" He trailed off, feeling like an utter heel for pushing her. This was why he'd never wanted to lead anyone, but with Talia wrapped up in her anger, he had no choice.

"I just wanted to help her," the bard said miserably. "She's hurting so badly, Alistair, and it's eating her up, but all I did was make it worse."

He listened as she spun out the tale of the previous night's conversation, groaning inwardly. No, that wouldn't have gone over well at all. Perhaps when the wounds were not so fresh…or after Talia had relieved Howe of his head, she'd be more willing to accept such comfort. And a part of him couldn't blame her. He certainly wouldn't want to hear Chantry platitudes about hope and beauty and the Maker's will in regards to the slaughter of Duncan and the other Wardens. But Leliana had meant no harm, and she seemed sincere enough in her faith (even if that whole vision thing had him wondering if she had spent a bit too much time fasting).

"I had no business offering counsel on such a delicate subject," she murmured, her blue eyes shadowed with self recrimination. "I am not even a true member of the Chantry, just a…a nobody."

"I definitely wouldn't go that far," he assured her, wondering what she had started to say, but not about to press the issue when she looked so damn crestfallen. "It's just a tender topic for her right now, but she'll have forgiven you by the time we stop for the night, I'm sure of it."

"You think so?" She didn't look convinced.

He nodded. "Generally, if you can survive the first five minutes of her being angry with you, you're fine. That being said," he gave her a wry smile, "if you hear me screaming, I'd appreciate you distracting her long enough for me to get away. That was a joke," he added hastily as her eyes widened. "I hope," he muttered under his breath as he moved away from her, his eyes on Talia's back.

"Playing the peacemaker?" Morrigan's drawl made him slow his steps as he passed her. "I would advise against it. The little fool thought that the empty promises of the Chantry would soothe a loss so keenly felt; I would let her take the consequences of that mindless arrogance."

"Eavesdropping again?" Why could he never resist when she baited him? The Maker knew that the odds of him winning were all but nonexistent.

"Tis only eavesdropping if one attempts to overhear," the witch replied, "and they could likely hear her bleating back in Lothering…assuming the darkspawn have not overrun it already."

Alistair heard a sharp intake of breath behind them and glared at Morrigan. "You didn't have to say that."

"Why not?" Golden eyes regarded him in a mockery of innocence. "If, as she so blithely tried to convince Talia, there is hope and beauty, even in the midst of a Blight, then that fact should comfort her, should it not?"

She shook her head scornfully. "It has never ceased to amaze me that lies told in denial of reality are encouraged and considered kind, while painful truths are treated as evil and ignored, as if refusing to see them will make them less true. Lothering will fall; she said that herself. Why does she then treat such a statement as an unwelcome surprise?"

"I'd explain it to you," he said tersely, willing his hands not to clench into fists, "but you'd have to have a heart to have any hope of understanding."

"Ah! Wounded to the quick!" Her mocking voice followed him as he strode forward, gritting his teeth against the reply that he so wanted to make. No matter what he said, she would have some volley to return. He should have learned that by now.

He set his face into what he hoped was a forbidding expression as he passed Sten, and though he seriously doubted that had anything to do with it, the qunari said nothing.

Brego's stub of a tail wagged twice as he approached, and the mabari gave him a friendly nudge that nearly tipped him over before resuming his forward lope, all business once more.

"Morrigan still complaining?" Talia asked with no real interest. Her eyes ranged ahead, scanning the empty horizon with a restless hunger that he'd seen all too often.

"You know Morrigan." He fell into step beside her, studying her face, deciding how best to proceed. She no longer looked as angry as she had earlier, but her expression was stony, as devoid of warmth as a bare rock face. "Just because you don't want her opinion doesn't mean that she's not going to give it to you."

"She's not the only one with that problem."

As openings went, it wasn't much, but it was likely all he'd get. "At least Leliana doesn't set out to offend and wound," he told her. "She's sorry for what she said last night. She really was hoping to help, and she's pretty upset with herself."

"No need for her to be," Talia said tonelessly. "We just don't look at things the same way. If she understands that, we'll get along well enough."

"If she just lets you alone, you mean?" When he got no response, he went on. "Talia, you're not the only one hurting, you know."

Her steps faltered briefly, and she glanced up at him, looking suddenly guilty. "I know," she admitted quietly. "I know that you miss Duncan and the others, Alistair. I wish I'd known them better."

The suddenness of the change in her surprised him. Though she had questioned him incessantly about what he knew of the Grey Wardens, their customs and rituals, she had never spoken of directly Duncan. When they had first arrived at Ostagar, she had been furious with the Warden Commander for taking her from Highever. As far as Alistair knew, that had never changed. "I wish you had, too, but I wasn't really talking about me." Now was not the time for him to start getting maudlin. "Or haven't you seen how sad Leliana looks when she thinks no one is watching?"

Her face hardened again briefly, then she sighed. "I have," she said, her eyes troubled. "She doesn't belong out here."

"According to her, she does," Alistair replied with a shrug. "Do you believe her story about her vision?"

"I believe that she believes it," Talia said after a moment of thought.

He chuckled. "That's one way of putting it. She doesn't seem all that crazy besides that, I guess, but I have to wonder. I've heard stories about Orlesian minstrels."

Talia looked up at him curiously. "What kind of stories?"

_Will you ever learn to keep your mouth shut?_ "Nothing specific, really. Just that the Orlesian nobility often - well, sometimes is probably more accurate, because I really haven't heard it all that often -"

"Alistair." She'd come to a full stop, giving him a look that meant he'd best come to the point and quickly.

"Well, I've heard that they can serve as spies for the Orlesian nobility," he said, hastening to add, "but that doesn't mean that she's one or was one. She could have had any number of reasons for staying in the Chantry."

"Besides making her seem as innocent as possible, you mean?" The look had become a full blown glare, and she snapped a suspicious glance over her shoulder, where the rest of the group had stopped, watching them with impatience (Sten), interest (Morrigan) or worry (Leliana). "Why didn't you mention this before now?"

_It was on the list._ Thankfully, that particular gaffe didn't make it past his lips. "Talia, it's likely nothing but gossip and old wives' tales. It - what?" Her attention had returned abruptly to the road ahead of them, her eyes taking on a gleam that he knew well. A moment later, he felt it, too: that subtle pressure in the back of his mind. He didn't know why Talia was more sensitive to them than he was; maybe it was because she wanted them more.

"Darkspawn," she confirmed, reaching around to loosen the ties that held her shield to her pack. "The map showed a town ahead, didn't it?"

He nodded, relieved at the sudden reprieve, even more relieved that she wasn't simply charging ahead into battle. "Think the name was Honnleath," he told her. "Didn't look very big." Which meant that it likely wouldn't have had a militia to defend the inhabitants against attack.

"Let's scout it out, then," she decided, her lips curling in that devil-may-care grin that always made her look beautiful and scary as hell at the same time. "If she survives the day, we'll deal with her tonight."

With that chillingly casual dismissal, Talia left the road, circling wide toward the perimeter of the little town. Sighing, he gestured to the others and followed her.

* * *

_Author's note: As I mentioned in the first incarnation of this chapter, the game designers' arrangement of the geography made no sense whatsoever to me, particularly in placing the area where you needed to go to pick up an NPC early in-game in a spot that you had no reason to be anywhere near. So I moved Honnleath. The residents didn't seem to mind._

_Alistair is another whose voice is fairly easy to find, and I enjoy writing things from his perspective. I think that my version of him is a bit less wishy-washy than the game developers made him, more willing to step up when he needs to, and I tried to show it early on. At this point, I had not yet decided if the romance was going to be Talia/Leliana, Talia/Alistair or even Leliana/Alistair. There was a period where I was considering having Talia's drive for vengeance consume her so completely that a relationship would have been impossible. It's kind of interesting revisiting these chapters now that I have pretty well solidified the entire story in my head, seeing how fluid things were at this point._

_Not too many edits in this chapter. A few changes in wording and taking out the templar references. Alistair definitely wouldn't think of himself that way._

__


	6. Truths Told

"Has it grown tired of asking questions, then?"

Talia looked up at Shale, realizing that she had been silent for several minutes. "It has just grown tired," she murmured.

"How fortunate for me." Amazing that stone could sound so snide. "I was beginning to fear that it needed sleep no more than I did."

"I only wish that I didn't." Sleep meant dreams, and dreams meant nightmares. On good nights, it was just the archdemon who stalked her. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you for so long, but I thank you for your patience." The novelty of a sentient golem had been undeniable, and provided a welcome distraction from other matters that she was no longer going to be able to ignore.

"I would say that it was my pleasure, but it wasn't," Shale intoned. "Still, it is not completely undesirable as company, and I do owe it for activating me."

"I thought we decided that you would pay that back by not squashing me?" Talia asked as she rose, watching the massive humanoid form warily.

"True. So long as it does not repeat the mistakes of my former master."

"Wouldn't know how, even if I wanted to," she told the golem. "Good night."

"Good, indeed. No trees with filthy birds roosting over my head. No idiot villagers scattering seed…"

Her presence did not seem required for the monologue, so Talia made her way back toward the rest of the camp, which was under the trees. Tonight was her night off watch, and she wasn't sure if she was looking forward to the extended rest or dreading the dreams that would surely come. She had to sleep, though.

Hate was exhausting, a fact that she had discovered only recently. The first seventeen years of her life had been passed in peace and safety, surrounded by family. Anger was what she had thought that she felt when Fergus teased her; sorrow was what she had thought she had felt when the stablemaster drowned a new litter of kittens. Her parents had allowed her to learn how to fight, and made certain that she learned how to rule, but they had not yet begun to prepare her for a world without them, and had never given thought to making her ready for a world without Highever or any of what she had been raised to know.

She had expected the grief that she felt, expected the sorrow that keened relentlessly in her heart, but she had not been ready for the rage, the hate. It had burned first for Howe and his fighters, then turned on Duncan. She had made life miserable for the man every step of the way from Highever to Ostagar, blaming him for leaving her parents, for taking her with him, but he had never taken her to task for it, never raised his voice, enduring her stony silences and furious outbursts with equal calm.

He hadn't deserved it, but she would never get the chance to apologize to him. Her hate burned for Loghain now, as well, and she could understand that, but the fire was blazing out of control within her. There were moments when she hated everything and everyone. Hated the world for continuing to turn as if nothing had happened. Hated the people that she saw, because they weren't the ones that she wanted to see and would never be. Hated her parents for making her leave, her brother for taking their forces to Ostagar and leaving Highever vulnerable, for being out in the Korcari Wilds when she had reached Ostagar. Hated herself for not having been able to save any of them, and for not having the courage to follow them into death.

The hate twisted inside of her like a living thing, leaving her reeling and confused on the occasions when it receded, but though she feared it, she clung to it stubbornly, because at times, it was the only thing that kept her standing and putting one foot in front of the other. She didn't think past what she would do once Rendon Howe was dead; she just focused on doing what was needed to reach that goal, and right now, that meant stopping the Blight.

Only when she was fighting did the inner conflicts that tore at her cease as hate and rage, grief and duty all swirled together in answer to a single imperative. She had always been skilled with a blade, but the simple delight she had taken in matching her skill to another's in combat had grown darker, harder. Hate gave her strength, and not caring if she lived or died had added a new boldness to her movement that took most opponents by surprise.

She didn't know where the berserker rages came from; she had never experienced them until after the battle at Ostagar. She had hit her head when the darkspawn had overwhelmed them in the tower, but whether that or the sheer pressure of her hate lay beneath it, she didn't know. Like the hate, it was both frightening and seductive: a red haze that settled over her, blurring her emotions into obscurity and sending power coursing through her veins like lightning. As long as she was in its sway, there was no thought, no feeling, no memory, no pain; there was only her and whatever she needed to kill.

Each time, she let it take her almost gladly, fully expecting that this time would be the one that got her killed, but thus far, each time, she emerged from the haze, blood soaked and wounded, but still alive, with the memories, the pain and the hate still waiting for her.

If she could have done it alone, she would have. Necessity required that she accept the assistance of others, and she did, but she kept herself as apart from them as she could. She knew that they didn't deserve her rage, her hate, but she could feel it surging against them all the same. Only Brego was spared that. She walled herself off, kept them away from the worst of her. Because she needed them. She'd never been alone in her life, and if their voices weren't the ones that she wanted to hear, they were at least voices, and if she could focus on them, she could keep the memories and the pain at bay for a time.

Alistair had been the first, and was still the only one that she really trusted, though she still could not make herself open up and share the grief that she felt, nor let him share his own pain with her. She still felt guilty about that, but at the same time…

He'd lost the company of a group of men that he'd known for six months; she'd lost family, home, everything about her old life, and she still felt a stab of resentment when she remembered that their current path was taking him back to his childhood home, and the man who had raised him. It was childish, selfish, and she could hear her mother's reproving voice, but the feeling lingered, so she allowed him to slough off her questions with answers that she knew were evasions, let him keep them both distracted with his jokes.

At least she didn't have to worry about him sticking a knife between her shoulderblades when her back was turned. The others… Trust, like peace and happiness, was something that she had always taken for granted, but now she found herself surrounded by people whose motives she did not truly know or understand, forced to rely upon them nonetheless.

She'd never met anyone like Morrigan, and for all of her arrogance and abrasiveness, she was still in many ways the easiest to be around; easier than Alistair, in some ways. She didn't coddle Talia, didn't tiptoe around her loss. On the occasions when Talia snapped at her, she snapped right back, and if her bluntness occasionally stung, it was a bracing sting, like a dash of cold water in the face, dispelling the churning emotions and clearing her mind. Her advice was coldly practical, but it made sense, and yet, Talia could sense something underneath. Perhaps Flemeth's reason for sending her daughter with Talia were only what she had said: the Blight was a threat to all, even the Witch of the Wilds. Maybe it was only her imagination, honed too sharply by the twin betrayals of Highever and Ostagar. Certainly a Blight should be reason enough to offer assistance, but all the rules that had governed Talia's life seemed to have been stripped away, leaving her with no reliable guide for what should and should not be.

Sten? He parted with words as grudgingly as any miser ever surrendered a sovereign, but he had been unstinting with his knowledge and skill, working with her almost every night. She still wasn't certain that sparing him had been the right thing to do, particularly since, now that he was armed and armored, she seriously doubted that she or any of the others could stop him if he decided to go on another murderous rampage. It was her father's voice that she had heard when she faced him in his cage, however, sternly reminding her that no man should be punished without being found guilty in a fair trial, musing that there seemed more to the story than was apparent at first glance. He would have been outraged by the barbarity of the cages, and intrigued by the taciturn qunari, and perhaps those reasons alone had been enough for Talia to set aside her misgivings and free the giant.

Chance and deception had placed a golem in their company; not the most auspicious of beginnings. After they had killed the darkspawn who had overrun Honnleath, they had found a group of villagers who had taken shelter in the cellar of a local wizard, behind a powerful ward. The darkspawn had been unable to reach them, but they had run out of food some days earlier, and were nearly out of water.

Out of gratitude for their rescue, the wizard's son had gifted them the control rod to his father's golem. To be sure, he likely had no idea that the rod would malfunction after the golem had been activated, but had he not 'forgotten' until that point to mention that the golem had killed his father thirty years earlier, Talia doubted that she would have risked waking it, regardless of how useful a personal golem might seem. Shale had declined Talia's politely worded hint that he take advantage of his new freedom by going off on his own, declaring he intended to follow 'it' (a form of address that was rapidly growing old) for the time being, and she had decided not to push the matter, since it seemed likely that the stone giant would be a match for even Sten if he took offense. Thus far, however, the only violent tendencies that Shale had shown had been to an unfortunate flock of pigeons that had not realized until too late that their favorite perch was no longer immobilized.

Leliana was currently cooking several of the tenderized squab over the campfire, and Talia paused some distance away, uncertainty churning in her gut. She'd been angry before, and spoken harshly, but she had also jumped to a conclusion that a bit of thought had quickly proven foolish. Leliana had been in Lothering for years; those at the Chantry and in town had known her well. Even if she had been a spy in Orlais, she had come to Ferelden far too long ago to be spying on the last surviving Grey Wardens. She was likely no more than what she claimed to be: one who sought refuge in the Chantry .

 _But refuge from what?_ The voice of suspicion was not easily silenced, perhaps more so because a part of her had _wanted_ to trust Leliana. Something about the Orlesian's cultured manner and gentle voice reminded her of home, familiar in a way that nearly everything else around her was not. The minstrel's words about hope and beauty in the midst of loss had taken her by surprise, and she'd reacted badly, but she'd known even before Alistair had brought it up that she owed her an apology. Whether she would ever have given one was another matter. Apologies didn't come easily to her these days, choked off by the hate, but now she owed two.

Leliana had to have heard her angry words to Alistair. _If she survives the day, we'll deal with her tonight._ Callous words, and undeserved. She'd regretted them almost as soon as they had left her mouth, but she'd let herself be drawn into the fight with the darkspawn in Honnleath instead of retracting them. The battle rage had long faded, leaving shame in its wake, but she had stayed away. She had seen the sadness that Alistair had spoken of: seen and ignored it, as she had ignored his pain. Acknowledging either enough to offer the comfort that she should - the comfort that those who had raised her would expect her to offer - risked losing the tight control that she had put on her own grief. She closed her eyes, seeing the faces of her father and mother: stern, loving…disappointed.

_You never told me I'd be alone. I don't know how to be._

Brego whined and rose, nudging his massive head beneath her hand, and she instinctively scratched behind his ears. He'd been gifted to her as a squirming puppy, his eyes barely open, and they had not been apart as much as a day since. Her last sight as she had crumpled in the tower at Ostagar had been of him leaping for a hurlock with fangs bared, and he had waited faithfully outside Flemeth's hut while she had lain unconscious within. He still bore the scars of the arrows that had been cut from his flesh, arrows taken in her defense, yet he still walked and fought at her side, asking for nothing more than an ear scratch and the occasional bone.

She crouched, wrapping her arms around him and leaning into his solid presence. If he noticed - or minded - that she had been less talkative of late, he gave no sign, accepting her silence as he had once accepted the secrets of her childhood.

"You like her, don't you?" she asked softly. He cocked his head, dark eyes watching her attentively as another whine escaped him. He seemed to like most of her companions, though he kept his distance from Shale, seeming confused by the golem's smell, or lack of it. Leliana and Alistair had both discovered his susceptibility to culinary bribery, but he would not have accepted food from them if he didn't like them. He and Sten treated each other with the aloof respect of equals, but oddly enough, the person that he seemed the most intrigued by was Morrigan, much to the witch's exasperation. Perhaps the smells of the forms that she assumed clung to her when she changed back.

"Do you miss them?" Though he was bonded to her, he had accepted the affection of the rest of the family, even allowing Oren to climb all over him. He had never shown any outward sign of grieving, save for a single howl as they had looked back at the flames that devoured Highever, but he lowered his head now and pressed it into her chest. He couldn't speak, but he always listened, and she had little doubt that he understood most if not all that she said to him.

"I should apologize to her, shouldn't I?" He lifted his head, staring into her eyes and chuffing softly before looking over his shoulder at the fire, then back at her.

"All right." She gave him a resigned smile. "I'll do it."

Leliana looked up as she approached, faint wrinkles of apprehension on her forehead smoothing quickly into a pleasant expression that did not quite hide the guarded look in her eyes. "Dinner's almost ready," she announced, using a stick to nudge one of the birds around on the flat rock that served as a skillet.

Talia nodded, settling onto the ground. "Smells good." The birds had been plump; the stone glistened as their juices ran from splits in the golden skin, and the wild scallions that Morrigan had found were sizzling among them, adding to the aroma.

"Thank you." Leliana gave her a hesitant smile. "It's not what I'm used to working with, but it seems to be working. Meals in Orlais are extravagant affairs, and a well-equipped kitchen is considered a necessity in any house -" She broke off, biting her lip as a flush pinked her cheeks. "I'm babbling, aren't I?"

"It's all right," Talia said quietly. "I wanted to apologize for the things I said – last night and earlier today. I had no right to say them."

Leliana shook her head. "I should not have spoken so thoughtlessly," she murmured. "You have been through a terrible ordeal."

"We all have," Talia responded, her throat suddenly tight, feeling herself clamping down against the commiseration in the woman's voice. This was as far as she could go. "So, are minstrels in Orlais really spies?" She tried to speak lightly, but she was sadly out of practice, and Leliana's expression made it plain that she had missed her mark.

"Most are not," the Orlesian replied carefully, her eyes fixed on the birds as she turned them again. "They simply offer songs and stories in return for coin, or perhaps room and board. A few, however, have received a more - extensive training, and engage in other activities, including spying. They are called bards."

"I thought that a bard _was_ a minstrel," Talia countered in puzzlement.

"In most countries, the terms are interchangeable," Leliana confirmed, her gaze still not meeting Talia's, "but it would cause great confusion in Orlais if they were so used. Bards have a wide range of skills, and are highly sought after by the nobility for any number of tasks. The nobles are constantly at war with each other, but custom prevents them from conducting these wars openly, you see." Her smile was both wry and a bit sad. "So they are all sweetness and courtesy in public, while they plot in secret to destroy each other."

"You seem well acquainted with such matters." Leliana flinched at Morrigan's sudden interruption as the witch approached, her golden eyes fixing the redhead with the unblinking evaluation of a raptor sizing up a hare for dinner. "Could it be that you are, in fact, one of these bards that you speak of?"

Leliana swallowed, but nodded after a moment's hesitation. "I was," she admitted, turning from Morrigan to face Talia, "but I left such things behind when I left Orlais, years ago."

Her face was earnest, pleading for understanding, belief. Talia felt herself nod, but before she could speak, Morrigan's voice rang out again.

"And what 'things' are these that you speak of?" One dark eyebrow arched in pointed inquiry. "You served as a spy? Stole secrets from one noble house to bring gain to another?"

"I - yes." Leliana ducked her head, using the stick to pull the birds from the cooking rock onto a tin plate.

"And to do this, you employed lies, deceit, the occasional seduction, perhaps?" Morrigan wanted to know. Alistair had poked his head from his tent, a frown on his face. "Pretended to be a friend to gain their confidence?"

"Yes." Leliana's voice dropped to a whisper, and when one of the birds fell from her stick into the fire, she made no move to retrieve it.

"Assassinations?" Morrigan seemed almost cheerful. "Did you ever kill one of those whose confidence you worked so hard to gain? Or more than one?"

For a moment, the Orlesian looked about to cry, but she set her jaw and lifted her chin, her eyes meeting Morrigan's almost defiantly. "I did many things that I am not proud of," she said, her voice low but steady. "I left Orlais and sought refuge in the Chantry because I no longer wished to do them."

"How comforting that must be to the widows and children of the men that you murdered." The witch's voice dripped sarcasm, eyes coming to rest squarely on Talia. "I wonder if Rendon Howe had such a clever spy in Highever, to alert his forces when 'twas time to attack?"

"Enough!" Alistair strode to the fire, eyes blazing. "I don't know what you're trying to do, but stop it now and go crawl back into your hole in the ground!"

"All I am trying to do," Morrigan shot back, "is be sure that if Talia decides to keep this insipid wench around, that she does so knowing full well what she is, and not what she pretends to be!"

"Whatever you're doing isn't for Talia's benefit," he growled angrily. "You're just bound and determined to make everyone else in the world as miserable as you are!"

"I could accomplish that much more easily, simply by afflicting them with your company!"

"Shut up, both of you!" Talia pushed herself to her feet, her pulse roaring in her ears, Howe's face in her mind, smiling at her father only hours before he killed him, knowing as he smiled that he would do so. Morrigan and Alistair had stopped their squabbling to stare at her with expressions of surprise more similar than either of them would want to know. She barely saw them. She couldn't look at Leliana, not with the rage rising in her again, demanding an outlet. The Orlesian hadn't been at Highever, she wasn't the one who - She clenched her fists, unclenched them, her eyes seeking out the towering form of Sten, who had watched the episode unfold with his usual detachment. She wouldn't be able to hurt the qunari, even if she tried.

"Sten -"

"Maker's breath, help! Somebody help me!"

A man's screams and Brego's bloodcurdling snarls broke the stasis. She ran toward the sounds, hoping that they were under attack, begging the Maker for someone to kill, but the man that the mabari had pinned was plainly both armorless and unarmed. He lay on his back with one thigh trapped in massive jaws that had not yet broken the skin.

"Brego, out!" She didn't bother looking around for a weapon. If he'd been holding one, he'd already be missing a leg. Ignoring the stab of disappointment, she drew her sword, setting the point beneath the intruder's chin as the dog released him and backed away.

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" She heard others arriving behind her, but she didn't look to see who had come. She needed all her focus to keep from impaling the man outright. The battle rage could be fought, but it wasn't easy…and she rarely wanted to.

The man's face was ashen in the moonlight, and it took a moment for him to gather himself enough to speak. "Are - are you the Grey Wardens?"

Talia stared at him, then cast an exasperated glance back over her shoulder, unsurprised to meet Alistair's eyes. "Do we have a herald following us that I don't know about?" she demanded. She'd never seen two people who looked less like Grey Wardens, but that hadn't stopped people from recognizing them: far too many, considering the price on their heads.

"I suppose I shouldn't have hung that sign by the road," her companion offered. "You know, the one that says 'Grey Wardens here: darkspawn slain, damsels rescued, problems solved at reasonable rates. Inquire within.'?"

She glared at him, but she knew what he was trying to do. She drew a deep breath, another, feeling herself teetering on the brink. Laugh or cry…or kill? "If you're going to leave that one up, you should at least include the 'Beware of Dog' sign."

"Now where would the fun in that be?"

Brego gave a happy bark of agreement. That did it; Talia felt the anger sag and collapse, leaving the dull ache of loss behind, and a ragged laugh fell from her lips. She stepped away from the man, returning her sword to its sheath. "All right, you've found us. Now, what do you want?"

The man stayed where he was for a moment, his expression betraying the worry that he'd stumbled into a camp of lunatics. Talia didn't bother to reassure him; he was likely more right than he knew. He got to his feet slowly, eyes never completely leaving Brego.

"I've been looking for you for a while now," he offered diffidently, brushing the grass from his clothes. "The name's Levi. Levi Dryden."

* * *

_A.N. - Very few changes to this one. One of the more challenging aspects of writing this has been showing the progression of Talia's process of grieving and loss. Her emotions as described in this chapter are based very much on my responses to the death of one of my parents a few years ago. The hate and anger took me very much by surprise, and being able to put those chaotic emotions into words was a very cathartic process. I never did come up with an 'official' cause for the berserker rages, but I pretty much decided that it was a combination of the head injury and the anger that she was unprepared to deal with._

_At the same time, as I learned in my own healing process, while the grief never truly goes away, it softens over time into something gentler and easier to bear...if you allow it to. A lot of that lies in allowing yourself to accept comfort and support from others who care about you. Alistair, Leliana and Wynne are chiefly the ones responsible for guiding Talia through her grief and helping her find herself again. I suspect that Talia (and subsequent events) would have turned out very differently if she had only Morrigan, Sten and Zevran as companions. I particularly enjoyed the banter between Talia and Alistair at the end of this chapter, because it shows the level of influence that he has on her...more than any of her other companions at this point._


	7. The Fall of Lothering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Several moments in the game caught my imagination and seemed to beg for a deeper examination. The fall of Lothering was one of those moments. It's not really given much attention, except for the loss of any quests that had been left undone at the time of its destruction, but Bodhan's comment on the rumor that not everyone had escaped hinted at a tragedy, and I found myself wondering what effect the news would really have had on the group, and Leliana in particular. There will likely be other interludes scattered in no particular pattern as I go, taking a closer look at events that were hinted at or skimmed over in the game.
> 
> If anyone has a suggestion for any such moments that they'd like to see expanded on in this manner, let me know. I'll take all suggestions, put them out and see what the plot bunnies nibble on.
> 
> See chapter 1 for the disclaimer

"The last wagon is leaving."

Ser Bryant stood in the doorway to the Revered Mother's chambers, watching as she laid a cool cloth on the forehead of a feverish man that she had placed in her own bed. The gut wound given to him by the damned bandits who had ambushed him on the road had turned septic, spreading its poison throughout his body, but his delirium had passed, thank the Maker. He'd spent hours babbling to his wife and baby daughter, both victims of the bandits; he'd seemed happy for a bit, but his fever dreams had quickly turned dark, making him once again the prisoner of the bastards who had run him through and made him watch as they raped his wife and cut the throat of a babe too young to even walk.

His screams had rung through the Chantry until he'd gone hoarse, but even with his throat raw, his cries had continued, and most of the templars had taken up stations outside the stone walls of the building, each one avoiding the haunted eyes of the ones nearest him. They were good lads, and they'd done their best to do their duty for Lothering, but the poor sod's misery was a constant reminder that their best had been nowhere near good enough of late.

With the Arl's men gone, it had been all they could do to guard the town itself against the encroachments of the bandits and the forerunners of the darkspawn horde. Any who could make it into Lothering were protected; those who did not died on the outskirts and were left to lay where they fell. The two Grey Wardens and their companions had surely been a gift from the Maker; if they hadn't taken on the worst of the bandits, and won, the evacuation of the last two days would have been a slaughter. The stories and the reward be damned; Teyrn Loghain would not hear from him or any in his command that the Wardens had been here, or the direction they'd taken when they left.

The Revered Mother had not reacted to his words. Her gaze stayed on her patient. He was past delirium now, his face bright with the fever, his eyes glazed and unseeing, only an occasional moan escaping him. He didn't have long to live. But then, no one who remained in this town did.

He waited a moment longer, then cleared his throat. "Revered Mother, I said –"

"I heard you," she said without looking around. Only after she had finished wiping the sweat from his face and drawn the blanket up to his shoulders did she turn to face the templar, looking much the same as she had the day that Bryant had first arrived in Lothering, more than five years ago. The lines on her face had deepened, and the faint remainders of gold in her hair had given way to strands of purest silver, but her green eyes were still clear and firm, and her face still radiated a calm serenity, even in the face of the storm that rose in the south. "We will not be going. There are still souls here in need of the Maker's comfort."

A dozen or so had been too weak to travel, even in the wagons: the fevered man, a young woman who still labored to deliver her child after more than two days, another man with a broken back, three old ones who could neither walk nor sit unassisted, several more with fevers or badly infected wounds. She had ordered them all brought into her own humble quarters, deep within the Chantry, and tended them herself, along with Elder Miriam and a younger Sister, Evanne, who had refused to leave with the other clergy.

"I'll assign one of my men to tend to them," he tried again. "There's room in the last wagon for the three of you."

"Regnar's?" she asked with a faint smile. "Do I want to know how you convinced him to make that room?"

"I'm fairly sure the Maker would have done the same." The greedy bastard had lingered like a vulture, buying up goods at pitiful prices from those who fled Lothering or just waiting until they had gone and raiding the belongings they'd been forced to leave behind. He hadn't been happy at all when Bryant had ordered his wagon emptied to provide transportation for the last group of refugees, but he'd been given no real choice in the matter. The templar was sending the youngest of those under his command along, just in case the miserable wretch got any ideas of dumping his passengers for a speedier getaway. He'd given thought to simply conscripting the man into Lothering's final defense and sending the wagon without him, but his lads deserved to die in better company.

From the corner, the young woman gave a weak cry, and moments later, the thin, reedy wail of an infant rose above the coughs and groans of the slowly dying. A tired smile creased the Revered Mother's face. "The Maker be praised. The babe and its mother can be placed in the wagon. Even Regnar's greed has been shaped to His purposes; the girl would never have been able to walk out after such a hard delivery." She turned and stepped across the room, kneeling beside Evanne and Miriam. Moments later, she returned, pushing Evanne ahead of her. The young Sister had tears running down her face and was clutching a swaddled bundle to her chest awkwardly.

"Mother, I can't!" she protested, shaking her head desperately. "My place is with you, with these people –"

"Your place is with this child," the Chantry elder replied, her voice gentle but firm, though her eyes were shadowed with sorrow. Past her, he could see Miriam drawing a sheet over the slack face of the child's mother, her thin shoulders still wracked with the cough that might have killed her, given time. "If it is to survive the journey to Denerim, it will need care." Her eyes met Bryant's, the instruction in them unspoken but clear, and he hastened to obey.

"None of the others in the wagon are in any condition to look after an infant, Sister Evanne," he confirmed. "Ser Talbot will have his hands full keeping an eye on Regnar. He could use your support and guidance."

Evanne was a plain girl, with short, dark hair and doe eyes, but Bryant had never seen a woman so beautiful as in that moment, when she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, tears shining on her cheeks and fearful resolution shimmering in her eyes. "I – I will go, then." Turning, she threw one arm around the Revered Mother, who returned the embrace, but caught her firmly when she would have returned to make her farewells to Miriam.

"Go now, child." She pushed her toward Bryant. "And the Maker's blessings go with you."

Bryant slipped his arm around her shoulders, guiding her out into the Chantry and toward the door. "The wagon is just outside," he told her. "Tell Maron that he's to send it on as soon as you're settled." He waited only long enough to ensure that she continued to walk when he was no longer pushing her, then turned back.

The Revered Mother watched until the door had closed behind Evanne. "It's already too late, isn't it?"

"It…may be," he admitted heavily. Since early that morning, animals had been seen fleeing north from the Korcari Wilds, deer and rabbits running side by side with wolves and swamp cats, seeking to escape a foe that threatened them all.

A single tear coursed a path over her cheek. "Then you and your men must buy them what time you can. I will bar the Chantry door and lock us in my quarters."

He nodded. The Chantry walls were heavy stone; it was the safest building in the village, but they both knew that the sanctuary it offered would be temporary, at best. "I'll assign two of my men here to protect you."

"No." She shook her head decisively. "If these walls are not enough to shelter us, their blades will make little difference. Better that they stand with their commander and give that wagon time to put distance between itself and the darkspawn."

She had already blessed the templars that morning, as she did every morning, but he found himself sinking to his knees before this woman, who had long ago surrendered even her name to the duty that her faith had called her to. "Will you bless me, Revered Mother?" he asked humbly.

She stepped forward, the simple bronze medallion at her neck catching the light of the candles, Andraste's eternal flame dancing in the reflected glow as she touched her hand to his head in benediction, the words of the Chant falling easily from her lips.

_"Blessed are they who stand before_

_The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter."_

He rose and bowed deeply to her. "It has been an honor to serve you, Revered Mother."

She caught him before he could straighten, pressing a motherly kiss to his forehead, her eyes peaceful. "We all serve the Maker, Ser Bryce, and this day, we will stand before Him together."

He paused for a moment on the steps of the Chantry, waiting for the tightness in his throat to subside and damning Loghain, the Arl and all the others who had simply abandoned this place and all in it. A cloud of dust on the road north marked the departure of the wagon, and his templars – all eight of them – now turned their eyes to him, waiting.

Maker, but he was proud of them, these young men who had become the sons that he had never sired! Each of them knew what awaited them this day, but none had sought to leave with the refugees. He'd had to order Talbot to go with the last wagon, and the boy's blue eyes had been filled with tears as he had moved to obey.

_Maker, let him survive._

He lifted his head, hearing the heavy bar slide into place over the door behind him. "It is time," he said simply, stepping onto the dusty ground of the courtyard, settling his helmet onto his head and retrieving his shield. "Form up!"

He strode forward, not looking as, one by one, they fell into place beside and behind him in a wedge formation, spread out a bit to cover the positions of those who had preceded them in death. They did not stop until they had reached the southern edge of town, at the far edge of the crumbling bridge. The gorge that it spanned stretched for miles in either direction, its walls steep, with no other crossings until it shallowed out. To attack Lothering, the darkspawn would have to cross this bridge, and they would, but it would not be so while a single one of Ser Bryant's men stood.

The wind was wild and strange, swirling out of the Wilds and bearing upon it great flocks of birds who screamed in warning as they fled.

"Draw swords!" He slid his own blade from its scabbard, its deadly hiss echoed in the baring of eight other swords. The setting sun caught the polished steel, reflecting red.

Beneath him, he could feel it in the ground: a vibration, faint but growing quickly as feet beyond number advanced from the south.

"Shields ready!" He lifted his own heater into position, felt them stepping up, shields locking together in a wall that would deflect the first charge of their foe. And possibly the second, Maker willing. Dust now rose in the air at the very edge of his vision, stretching across the horizon as far as he could see. His voice rose up, strong and steady, and after a moment, they joined him, one by one, speaking in earnest the words they had first learned as children:

_"Maker, my enemies are abundant._

_Many are those who rise up against me._

_But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,_

_Should they set themselves against me."_

Figures were becoming visible in the churning dust: hulking and twisted forms that seemed to move in a shadow all their own. The vibration beneath his feet had grown and become audible: a low rumble that shook the leaves on the trees around them.

_"Though all before me is shadow,_

_Yet shall the Maker be my guide._

_I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond._

_For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light_

_And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."_

Maron stood at his right hand, grey eyes watching the advancing army impassively. When the lad to _his_ right started to back away, he steadied him with a hand to his shoulder, his lips still moving. His red hair was visible at the edge of his helm, and Bryant thought suddenly of Leliana. The pretty - but odd – Orlesian lay-sister had joined the Wardens, convinced that she was supposed to aid them against the Blight. Did she still live, or had her last sight been one such as this?

_"Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,_

_I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm._

_I shall endure._

_What you have created, no one can tear asunder."_

They were closer now; he could make out the stocky, more numerous genlocks, with the taller and lankier shapes of the hurlocks scattered among them and the massive bulks of ogres looming above them all. They had been seen, as well, and a wide swath of the advancing line gave a roar and broke into a shambling run. The rumble grew into a thunder, filling the world, and leaves fluttered to the ground all around them. He set his weight on his rear foot, bracing against the coming impact, his voice ringing out over the rising din.

_"Draw your last breath, my friends,_

_Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky._

_Rest at the Maker's right hand,_

_And be Forgiven."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. - Confession time: when going back over this, I felt a definite urge to replace the words of the Chant with the "Lo, there do I see my father," lines from 'The Thirteenth Warrior'.
> 
> Overall, though...when I can look back over something that I have written months – years – before, and still find myself moved by what I read, I am extremely satisfied, and that was the case for me here. Lots of templars to de-capitalize and one troll to turn into an ogre, but apart from realizing that the end of the bridge would be a natural defensive point, I didn't make any major changes.
> 
> Part of my reason for writing this chapter is that the templars and the Chantry frequently serve as antagonists and obstacles in the game, and in a lot of fanfictions, portrayed as a homogenous, faceless (literally, in the cases of the helmeted templars in the Tower) mass of unyielding, puritanical hypocrisy. Such individuals definitely exist, in the game and in real life, and the higher up in the hierarchy that you go, the more insulated from the world, the more likely you are to encounter it. At ground level, in the trenches, in the worst places and the darkest moments, those of true faith and courage separate from the pretenders like oil from water, rising to the top and giving shining examples of what is best in humanity. That is what I was trying to capture in this chapter.


	8. Rumors of War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Anyone else notice that the game designers made your PC make a LOT of leaps of faith when it came to companions? I had to put my characters through some serious mental calisthenics to accept Sten, Shale and Zev. A big, grumpy guy who killed eight people for reasons he won't disclose, a defective golem who turned its former master to jelly and a guy who has already tried to kill you once? Oh, sure, bring 'em ALL along!
> 
> Anyway, that bit of musing was one of the thoughts going through my head when I wrote this chapter, along with trying to come up with a plausible reason to detour to Soldier's Peak. It started out to be from Talia's POV, but Alistair hijacked it pretty quickly.

"I told you," Levi Dryden said with pride as Talia settled the breastplate into place and reached to adjust the straps. "If Mikhael couldn't fit it to you, there's not a smith in Ferelden that could."

"It's beautiful work," Talia agreed. Sophia Dryden had been a bit shorter than Talia, as well more strongly built, but Levi's brother had made the necessary adjustments to the armor without damaging the enameling, and every piece fit as though it had been made for her. It was a vast improvement, both in looks and function, to the armor she had been wearing, and no one could say that she didn't look the part of a Grey Warden now. Not with the order's double gryphons embossed in silver on the rich blue background of the cuirass. "Alistair should be the one wearing it, though."

Mikhael Dryden shook his head. "It was crafted for a woman's form," he said, just as he had said in response to Talia's original protest the day before. "Adjusting it to fit a man could hurt the strength. Men are taller, wider in the shoulders, narrower in the hips -"

" - and thicker in the skull," Alistair added, giving Morrigan a smug grin. "Beat you to it, didn't I?"

The witch rolled her eyes. "Proof that even a rock can learn, given enough time."

"A rock?" He gave her a look of exaggerated shock. "I'll have you know that I have the mental capacity of at _least_ a log!"

"Then I have been vastly overestimating logs," Morrigan replied with a sniff.

"Or underestimating me," he suggested brightly. "I know, I know: not possible to underestimate me." She gave him an unfriendly stare and turned her back on him.

"You're in a good mood," Talia remarked as he turned to her, chuckling. Nothing irritated Morrigan half so much as anticipating her best lines.

"You should be in a better mood," he replied. "We've retaken a fortress that the Wardens lost over two hundred years ago! Our first real victory? Perhaps we should - oh, I don't know - celebrate?" That it was a task that Duncan had wanted done only made their success all the sweeter.

Talia simply gave him one of her inscrutable looks and turned back to Levi and Mikhael. "In your travels, let it be known that the Grey Wardens have reclaimed Soldier's Peak."

Levi nodded. "That's a promise, Warden. The Drydens trade far and wide across Ferelden, and wherever we stop, the tale will be told. I just wish there was some other way to repay you."

"This will do," she assured him, gesturing at the armor that Alistair and Sten wore, as well as her own. While nowhere near as ornate as the Warden Commander's armor, it was no less of an improvement on the hodgepodge of chain mail and plate that he and the qunari had been making do with: heavy plate, well made and needing little time for Mikhael to make it serviceable. There had been a veritable trove of artifacts and lost history within the Keep, and while much had decayed and been lost, much remained not only identifiable, but highly usable, including a blade that had apparently been hidden away in a cache by none other than Warden Commander Asturian, the man who had overseen the building of Soldier's Peak. Talia had refused to part with her family's sword, which was why Asturian's Might currently rested at Alistair's hip.

Not that he was complaining. The blade had exquisite balance, and Mikhael had easily honed it back to a razor's edge. Alistair still didn't feel worthy of bearing such an heirloom, but he was in no position to turn down an upgrade to his battered equipment. Plus, he couldn't deny that he took a measure of strength from that connection with such a famed Warden. It wasn't as good as having something that had been Duncan's, but it was _something_ , and he was at least beginning to feel like a Grey Warden now (though he still felt like a Grey Warden who was in way over his head).

"You were right to do this," he told Talia as Levi left. He'd been baffled and angry when she had first turned them north to conquer a ruin that had lain abandoned for two centuries, and even her argument that retaking the Keep would bolster their credibility in the eyes of those they sought as allies had not fully swayed him. Seeing the Keep, however, witnessing firsthand the struggle that had taken place there as visions of the past slipped out of the Fade before their astonished eyes, he'd come to feel that they weren't just fighting to avenge their own losses, or even just to stop the Blight, but to restore the honor of all those who had fought and died before them, by doing what it was that Grey Wardens were supposed to do.

He thought that Talia had begun to feel it, too, but she simply answered, "Maybe," her dark eyes distant and thoughtful as she stood before the great stone fireplace, where a fire blazed for the first time in centuries. The Keep was in dire need of repairs and cleaning, but Levi assured them that his family would begin the task, in return for being allowed to use the place as a base of operations for their trading.

"You don't think so?" he asked, following her gaze to the threadbare tapestry that hung over the mantle. In between burns, rips and worn spots, the scene showed the Grey Wardens riding into battle upon gryphons, swords held high in the setting sun.

"I don't know." She glanced at him, and he could see doubt in her face, the first he had witnessed in her since they'd met. "Maybe we've done something that will help us secure those treaties, and maybe we've just given Loghain a target that he won't be able to resist." She looked over her shoulder at the first arrivals of the Dryden clan; Mikhael and his family had come yesterday, and Levi assured them that more were on the way. "If he comes, he'll likely kill anyone he finds here."

"He may," Alistair conceded, though he knew that it was a near certainty, "but we have to do what we can to build the alliances we need. We haven't got a prayer otherwise."

"Sophia did what she thought she had to do, too," Talia said quietly, staring up at the tapestry once more. "She got herself and everyone who followed her killed, and the Wardens banished from Ferelden."

"Yes, but we've got the chance to _really_ botch things," he told her in his drollest tone. "We could lose the whole damn country to the Blight." He sighed as she shot him a glare. _Wrong time for humor; okay, try again._ "Look, I know it's hard, but if we don't do anything, then the darkspawn really _will_ destroy Ferelden. Only the Grey Wardens can –"

" – kill the archdemon," she finished for him. They'd covered this ground before. Repeatedly. "And we have no idea _how_ we're supposed to do it, unless you can kill it with bad jokes." The hope that the Grey Warden relics within the keep would include some mention of how their ultimate function was accomplished had so far proven unfounded.

"I wish it were that easy." He was only half in jest. "If that were all it took, the Blight would be over and we'd be in a tavern somewhere with everyone wanting to buy us drinks."

She nodded, her eyes dropping to the leaping flames. "I know why Sophia ordered Avernus to summon the demons," she said softly, her expression settling into a look of unutterable weariness. "I know how she felt. All I want to do is kill Howe, and that means dealing with the Blight, but there are times when I think that I'd let the Blight have the rest of the world, if I could just have his life."

Alistair nodded silently. He'd seen something in Talia's eyes as they had watched the siege of Soldier's Keep unfold, watched Sophia Dryden change from a bold and charismatic leader to a desperate and driven woman, determined to win at all costs. He hadn't understood it at the time.

She turned suddenly, leaning into him hesitantly, as though she feared that he might step away or vanish, resting her forehead against his chest, her arms still at her sides. "I'm not sure that I like what that makes me."

He stood awkwardly for a moment, unsure what to do. His searching eyes found Leliana, who had been talking with Mikhael's wife, and she sent him an encouraging smile. She'd gotten it into her head that he and Talia would make a good pair and had been nudging him none-too-subtly in that direction. Frankly, he wasn't so sure. There was no denying that he cared about her, but it was the kind of caring that he imagined that he would have had for a sister…at least, he thought it was. Having never had either a sister or any romantic entanglements, he supposed that he was a bit short on bases of comparison. He did care about her, though, so he cautiously embraced her with one arm, careful not to pull her any closer than she had placed herself.

"I feel the same way about Loghain sometimes," he admitted. "You can't help what you feel, but you're doing the right thing, doing what needs to be done to fight the Blight. That's all that matters."

"Is it still the right thing if it's done for the wrong reasons?" she asked without looking up.

"I won't tell on you if you won't tell on me," he offered.

She lifted her eyes to his, a faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Deal," she agreed, straightening and allowing his arm to slip from her shoulders. "Just…don't leave, all right?"

 _Him_ not leave _her_? When he still dreamed almost every night of finding himself alone in Ostagar amidst a sea of Grey Warden corpses? On the other hand, it was the first time that she'd admitted that she needed his presence, too. "That's a promise."

The smile grew stronger for a moment, a gentler sister to the wild grin that battle brought to her face, and he could almost imagine what she had been like before all of this. He had a sneaking suspicion that, had they been in the Chantry together, she'd have been right there with him, screaming just to make the Sisters come running to see what was wrong; he'd caught the occasional answering gleam of mischief in her eyes when he was babbling on about his misadventures, but it always faded, as the smile did now, and her defenses went back up.

Still, they had dropped more often, if still briefly, over the last few days, and he'd seen her opening up a bit more to the others, as well.

Well…most of the others.

She turned her head as the first soft notes began to fall from the lute. Moments later, Leliana's voice rose in the hall, a pure and clear soprano, singing a tune to Mikhael's wife and youngest son. Talia's face was unreadable as she watched the bard sing.

"She's good," Alistair offered cautiously.

"She is," was the noncommittal agreement. Her eyes slid sideways to him. "Or were you not talking about her voice?"

He shrugged. "Take your pick, I suppose." Leliana had been in the thick of the fighting all the way through the Keep, showing an uncanny knack for slipping in behind a foe and hamstringing them that had leveled out more than one fight where they'd been outnumbered. "She's certainly pulled her weight. I'm inclined to believe what she said about all the spying business being in her past."

"So am I." That took him by surprise. She'd been keeping Leliana at arm's length since that night in camp: cool and polite, but never speaking to her beyond the requirements of duty. The Orlesian tried to take it in stride, but he'd seen the hurt in her eyes when she watched Talia talking with Morrigan as though nothing had happened. Talia had been furious with the mage, and the subsequent argument between them had seemed more than once on the verge of violence, but whatever had passed between them seemed to have cleared the air, for them, at least.

"Some reason you're still treating her like a leper, then?" He was starting to get a feel for when he could push her, and when it was best to hold his tongue and wait. With combat neither imminent or just past, now was as good a time as any.

"I just -" She paused, chewing at her lower lip, clearly searching for words. "I'm not sure what to say to her, what to feel about her. She's killed people, murdered them."

"So has Sten," he reminded her. He felt considerably more unsettled around the qunari, and not just because Leliana was much easier on the eyes. He still hadn't explained why he'd felt the need to depopulate a farmhold, and Talia seemed content to let the matter lay undisturbed. "So has Shale, come to think of it." And after having seen what the golem could do to an opponent, he preferred not to think of it, thank you very much.

"But I knew that from the start." She shook her head. "It just…feels different with her, knowing that she gained their trust, then betrayed them …or worse. How do you know she won't do the same to us?" The question was almost plaintive, and her eyes, when she raised them to his, were still filled with doubt. It was easy to forget how young she was, most of the time, and how little experience she'd had of the world before being forced out into it.

"I…don't." He admitted after a moment spent fumbling for an answer that didn't sound quite so lame. Lame or not, it was the truth. "Any more than I know that Sten won't kill us in our beds, Shale won't squash us into pulp or Morrigan won't – do whatever it is that sneaky witch thieves do when your back is turned." That earned him another brief smile, but her eyes remained serious. "I mean, we're not exactly traveling with paragons of virtue, if you hadn't noticed, but you don't seem to have any trouble with the others. What's different about Leliana?"

"None of them hid what they did, what they were," she replied, still struggling to give voice to her thoughts. "And they're all…different. I've never met anyone like any of them, so not really trusting them doesn't seem so strange. I trust you." He felt a definite twinge there; he still hadn't worked up the nerve to bring up his secret, but now really didn't seem like a good idea. "Leliana looks like someone you should be able to trust, and she acts like it. I could imagine her at Highever, just like I can imagine you there." She swallowed, her face tightening. "But then I start wondering who it was," she continued, turning back to the fire. "Who it was that Howe bought in Highever. Which person that belonged there, that we trusted, was the one to betray us?"

He understood then, and silently damned Morrigan to the Void for ever posing that question. "You'll probably never know that, Talia, but you do know that it wasn't Leliana." He hesitated. Didn't she? "You can't punish her for what someone else did. Your father wouldn't have, would he?"

"No." Her reply was clipped, terse, and he knew that he was pushing his limits, but even the little that she'd spoken of father made it plain that her memories of him guided many of her decisions.

"She's given us no more reason to doubt her than any of the others." _And considerably less than some_ , he thought, but did not say aloud.

"I know." She exhaled softly, brushing an errant lock of hair away from her face, looking uncertain again. "I just don't know what to do."

The song ended with applause from the tiny audience. Leliana blushed with pleasure, a shy smile on her face as she began another tune. She played almost every night in camp, but Alistair and the dog seemed to be the only ones who noticed.

"You might just try talking to her, for a start," he suggested. "She's actually quite easy to talk to."

Talia glanced at him curiously. "You like her, don't you?"

"Sure, I like her – wait. You mean -?" He stared at her, feeling a blush heating his ears. "No. I mean, yes, I like her, but I just _like_ her, not – anything else."

"Why not?" She cocked her head, studying the bard. "She's pretty enough."

"Well, yes, but –" Could his ears get any warmer without bursting into flame? "I mean, you're pretty, too, and I like you, just like I like her." He was going to have his booted foot in his mouth up to the knee if he kept this up. What was it with females and matchmaking, anyway? "But I just like you both. That's all."

Her expression turned quizzical, but he was saved from whatever reply she might have made by the sound of the trumpet from the front gate: three short blasts announcing that someone was approaching. If whoever it was had looked hostile, Mikhael's oldest son would have sounded a single, long note.

"Perhaps Collen is early?" Mikhael's wife suggested as Leliana's hand fell away from the lute.

"Maybe," Talia agreed, but when she met Alistair's eyes, he could see the same wariness that he felt. Soldier's Peak was not an easy place to reach, nor was it near a well traveled road. He fell into step beside her as she strode toward the main doors, glad that they hadn't yet stripped out of their armor after the fitting.

"Too soon for Loghain to be here," he murmured, hearing the rest of the group moving to follow them.

"But not for bandits looking for easy pickings." She stepped out the door into the cold mountain air, shielding her eyes from the sun with an upraised hand and staring toward the gate, where an elderly looking donkey was hauling a wooden cart laboriously up the snow covered path. "It's Bodahn," she announced with a mixture of relief and irritation.

Brego nudged his way between Alistair and Talia, whining eagerly. "Yes, Sandal, too," she told him with an indulgent smile. "Go say hello."

The dog immediately bounded down the steep steps, skidding as he hit the snow at the foot, then regaining his feet and racing to meet the dwarf and his son, leaving his two legged companions to descend at a slower pace.

"Dog!" Sandal's voice piped up excitedly.

"He's a friend, of sorts," Talia explained to Levi. "Another trader."

"A vulture, you mean," Morrigan added, her lip curling in a distasteful sneer. "I believe I'll skip this reunion." Turning, she went back into the Keep.

"If that happened every time, he could drop in whenever he liked," Alistair murmured to Talia. The dwarf's methods for obtaining his 'merchandise' still made him a bit uneasy, but abandoned goods couldn't really be considered stolen, could they?

"You did it, I see!" Bodahn announced with a broad smile as they met him halfway. "I told you they could do it, my boy!"

"Dog!" Sandal exclaimed again, his simple face beaming as Brego slathered it with his tongue, though the normally rowdy mabari was careful to keep all four feet on the ground as he greeted the youth.

"A little far north for you, isn't it?" Talia asked pointedly.

"A bit, yes," the dwarf admitted, "but I have to admit, hearing you talking about the Peak made me curious. Don't get me wrong; I know whatever's in the fort itself is Grey Warden property by any rights, but I figured there might be some other items that've been lost in these mountains and caves. Can't hurt to look, can it? Besides," he went on, his voice dropping a bit, "it's not really safe in the south right now."

Something in his tone caught Alistair's attention. "What do you mean?" The man made his living by scavenging belongings from the path of the Blight. It might be morally shady, but it definitely required a stiffer backbone than the average bloke.

Bodahn's face was grim. "Lothering was overrun by the Blight three days ago." He shook his head slowly. "Word has it that not everyone was able to get out before the darkspawn attacked. Tragic."

Alistair felt his gut knot up. Talia's face had paled, her jaw clenched tight and her fingers gripping the hilt of her sword. She met his eyes, and he could see the same thought there that was in his own mind: _So soon?_ It had been less than two weeks since they'd left the village. Suddenly, the detour to Soldier's Peak didn't seem like such a great idea, after all. How much time did they have before all of Ferelden fell?

A startled exclamation from Levi brought them around to see Leliana crumpling, her face gone ghost white. Talia was there first, catching her before she hit the ground.

"Alistair, help me get her inside," she grunted, struggling to keep the limp form out of the snow. Even with the Keep cleared of demons and walking dead, the dormitories and sleeping quarters were in no condition for habitation, so they had all bedded down in the great hall, which was still an improvement over pitching tents in the snow.

"It picked an odd time to sleep," Shale remarked as Alistair lifted the bard into his arms and started back toward the stairs. "Or is it dead?" For all the dispassionate curiosity in the golem's tone, it might have been looking at the corpse of a dog beside the road, and he had to fight a massive case of the creeps.

"She fainted," Talia snapped angrily, moving ahead of him to get the doors. "Levi, find Bodahn a place to put up for the night; I'm going to want to talk to him later."

Leliana came around quickly, but refused to speak to anyone, curling on her bedroll with her hands clasped beneath her chin, lips moving in soundless prayer and tears glistening on her cheeks.

Talia looked up as Alistair approached the lower fireplace. He shook his head, then shrugged.

"Damn it," she swore under her breath, glowering at Bodahn.

"I didn't know she'd take it so hard," the dwarf offered apologetically. "I wouldn't have spit it out like that if I'd known."

The glare held for a moment longer, then faded. "Not your fault," she sighed. "We didn't know, either." She stood, pacing the length of the sunken entry and back again, her expression pensive. "She knew that Lothering was in the path of the Blight," she muttered, almost to herself. "She said herself that it would fall, so why…?" She trailed off with a frustrated hiss, dragging her fingers through her hair.

"It was her home," Alistair said quietly. "Sometimes even the truths that we know, we don't want to face head on."

She glanced at him, pain flickering briefly across her face before she locked it down, giving him a curt nod of acknowledgment as she dropped back into her chair. "I didn't think it would happen so fast," she murmured, scrubbing her face with her hands. "All those people…should we have helped get them out?"

"I don't think we would have made much difference," he told her, though he felt the guilt gnawing at his own gut. "We took care of the bandits that were blocking the evacuation; a lot more would have died if we hadn't."

She nodded again, though she didn't seem to believe his words any more than he did. "Have you heard any other news?" she asked Bodahn. "Are the darkspawn pushing farther north?"

"All the rumors I've heard say that they struck Lothering and drew back into the Wilds," the dwarf replied, stroking the braids of his beard thoughtfully. "The reliable ones, anyway. You've always got the sodder who swears that the streets of Denerim are awash in hurlocks and ogres, but it's easy to shoot those down. Best I can figure, they took Lothering because they could, because it was sitting there, so close, and with no one to defend it. Easy pickings."

Talia winced, and Alistair had to fight the urge to backhand the tactless dolt. "Going back won't do any good," she said hollowly. "What's done is done. We need to get to Redcliffe and get those treaties honored, then figure out how in the hell we kill an archdemon." She glanced at the dwarf again. "Don't suppose you've heard any reliable rumors about that, have you?"

He shook his head. "Just that the Grey Wardens are the ones to do it."

"That makes it pretty well unanimous, then." She stared morosely at the flames. "We have to keep moving forward, but what about Leliana?"

"She can stay here, if she's not fit to travel," Levi offered. "Mikhael's boy has taken a real shine to her, and a bard's always good to have around."

"Let's see where she's at in the morning," Alistair suggested. "It may be that she'll be all right once the shock wears off and she gets some sleep." They couldn't wait here indefinitely, though, so it was reassuring to know that there was an option available if she didn't recover quickly from the loss.

He didn't even consider a third option, which was Leliana up and vanishing on her own sometime during the night. So, of course, that was exactly what happened.

* * *


	9. Mutiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the companions race to catch up with Leliana, Talia finds her decisions being questioned.

"Warden, I would speak with you."

Talia could feel the others' attention on her as she turned to Sten. The qunari had approached, as always, more silently than anyone seven feet tall and wearing plate armor had a right to.

"Go ahead," she replied evenly. She knew what was coming; she'd seen it building in him since they had left Soldier's Peak three days ago. Longer than that, truth be told. His challenge to her on the journey to the ancient Warden redoubt had been all but guaranteed to be repeated, despite the fact that they were once again headed south.

"How do you expect our present course of action to help us meet our goal?"

"Well, from all reports, there should be darkspawn to fight at Lothering," she replied with deliberate lightness. They had encountered more people fleeing northward as they headed south, all bearing slightly differing variations of the same grim tale. He remained silent, his eyes on her, and she sighed. "It doesn't, Sten."

"Then why do we do it?" There was no attempt to censure the disapproval in his voice, just as there was no softening of his criticism when she made a mistake in their sparring matches. Normally, it didn't bother her; she found that she preferred bluntness now, which was fortunate, since between Sten, Shale and Morrigan, there was no shortage of it. At the moment, however, when she already knew that she was doing something that made neither tactical nor strategic sense, it was less welcome. When she didn't answer, he continued. "If the Orlesian wishes to end her life in this manner, is that not her right?"

"But is that what would be best for the group?" Qunari placed a great deal of emphasis on the importance of the collective over the individual, but she doubted that the argument would sway him.

She was right. "The loss of one will make little difference, if your goal is to gather an army. Particularly one whose mind is unsound."

"She's grieving, Sten," Talia growled. "Humans do that. It sometimes makes them not think clearly, do things they wouldn't normally do." _Like get so wrapped up in your own pain that you don't see how much someone else is hurting? Sound familiar, Talia?_

"I do not speak of her grief," he said. "She believes that the deity of these lands speaks to her, gives evidence of his existence in mundane events that occur in all places."

"That doesn't make her crazy." She'd never given much thought to the Chantry and its teachings before, but what Leliana had said didn't seem like such a radical departure from what she had learned from Mother Mallol. The whole vision thing, well…

"And what if she now believes that her Maker wishes her to die?" Morrigan demanded tartly from her seat beside the fire. They had all abandoned any pretense of not listening to the conversation; even Brego was watching with pricked ears. Her mabari was the only one that she hadn't caught giving her appraising looks since she'd set them on their path back to Lothering. "Do you plan to drag her away and keep her restrained to prevent it? The task that you are on is too vital to put at risk for the sake of some addled Chantry sheep who is likely a spy -"

"Enough!" Morrigan recoiled a bit in surprise as Talia spun on her. "You don't like her," the Warden said through clenched teeth. "I accept that, but _don't_ try to manipulate me. Either she's addled or a she's a spy; it seems to me that she wouldn't have lasted long if she were both, and you're smart enough to know that. Did you think I wouldn't be?"

The golden eyes narrowed. "I think that you believe that saving that girl's life will somehow atone for your failure to save the lives of those that Howe murdered," she replied, her tone as precise and brittle as ice cracking. "And I believe that you are putting not only your own life, but the lives of the rest of us, as well as the fate of all Ferelden, at risk to assuage this misdirected guilt. The dead will remain dead, regardless of what you do. If you wish to avenge them, rather than join them, your path does not lie in this direction."

"And I agree with the witch," Sten rumbled, "as galling as I find the prospect. You have allowed your emotions to make you act rashly."

"Why did you kill those people, Sten?" She turned back to him suddenly. He stared down at her, scowling.

"That has nothing to do with -"

"I asked you a question!" she said, raising her voice and hardening it, meeting his gaze without flinching.

"And I gave you my answer the first time you asked it," he replied, his expression growing stony.

Hers matched it. "And until that answer changes, you have no business asking me my reasons for doing anything. If you don't like what I'm doing, you can leave at any time, but I will hear no further questions on this matter. Do you understand?"

He stared at her in silence, the harsh planes of his face set into unreadable lines.

"Do. You. Understand. Me?" Even standing on tiptoe, her head reached barely as high as his chin, and he could likely rip her head from her shoulders without straining himself, but he only nodded, his expression never changing.

"I understand, Warden." Turning away, he strode to his bedroll and lay down, seeming to fall asleep almost immediately.

"That goes for the rest of you, as well," she added, glaring at them. "Anyone coming with me should be ready to move out in two hours."

Morrigan opened her mouth, likely to protest that they had stopped only an hour earlier, then closed it again, settling for returning the glare.

Talia stalked away from the firelight until she reached the deep shadows of the forest, letting the coolness of the air take the heat of anger from her cheeks. She raised a hand into the moonlight that filtered through the branches overhead, willing the tremors to still.

_Damn it._ She'd been more controlled in this confrontation with the qunari, but the rage was still all too quick to rise, and now she could also feel the fear that accompanied it, fueled it. She didn't know if she was doing the right thing or not, but she couldn't conceive of any other course of action; did she have the right to drag the rest of them along?

Armored footsteps approached, crushing branches and leaves underfoot. "Talia?" Alistair's voice, tentative and wary.

"You weren't included in that," she informed him without turning around.

"Meaning I can question you…or I can't leave?" he wanted to know.

"Both." In spite of herself, she felt a smile on her lips. He could do that to her, and part of her was grateful for it, even while another part stubbornly insisted that it was wrong to smile, to accept any measure of happiness or mirth while her family's murder went unavenged.

"Good to get that straight," he replied in a deadpan voice, "though if I didn't know better, I'd think that you had a death wish."

"I don't." The readiness with which the denial came to her lips surprised her, and she paused to examine it, unsure just when in the past few weeks she had lost the soul-deep desire to die. The pain still gnawed at her, and the hunger for revenge was just as strong, but the bottomless pit no longer yawned just beyond the edge of it all. The stubborn part of her protested the loss of it, as though she had no right to want to live with so much of her life gone, but she felt an obscure sort of relief, as well. "I don't," she repeated. "What makes you think so?"

"You mean besides you all but daring the most frightening individual I've ever known to snap you over one knee like a twig, or heading us right back toward an army of ravening monsters that outnumbers us by - oh, half a million to one?" His armor creaked as he shrugged. "No reason at all, I guess."

"If I didn't talk that way to Sten, he likely would have either left or challenged me for leadership," she replied. "Qunari will follow a crazy leader before they will a weak one. And if we can catch up to Leliana before she reaches Lothering, we should be able to avoid the ravening monsters."

"And if we don't?" He sounded almost apologetic, but it was a fair question. The bard had proven frustratingly elusive. Despite the group traveling from just before sunrise to well past sunset, she stayed ahead of them, Brego's nose confirming that she continued south, towards Lothering. She couldn't be sleeping more than a couple of hours a night; she'd taken no food with her, and only a single waterskin, but Talia knew well enough that what drove her was strong enough to overcome that for a time.

She took a deep breath. "If we don't," she said slowly, "then you take the others and head for Redcliffe. I'll try to find her…or what happened to her, then and catch up with you."

"Talia -"

"Don't." She shook her head hard, her throat tight. "I know what has to be done, I know we have to kill the archdemon, I know we can't risk that. I _know_ that, but I can't just let her die, Alistair. Not like this. I'd do the same for any of them, or you. I can't lose anyone else."

"I feel the same way." He took her by the shoulders, turning her to face him. "Which is why I don't want to see you get killed along with her. You are _not_ leaving me alone to deal with our traveling lunatic asylum." He was trying to joke, but his eyes were dead serious.

"She's not dead," Talia told him. "Not yet. Brego can track her as long as she walks, and I can sense the darkspawn in enough time to avoid them."

"But _will_ you?" He wasn't letting her off so easily. "You've got to promise me that you won't do something crazy and get yourself killed. I can't do this alone! Promise?"

He wasn't even trying to be funny now. He was afraid; she could see in his eyes the same bone-cutting panic that she felt when she thought of Leliana stumbling into a mob of darkspawn, the same panic that she knew she would feel if he was the one proposing to go off alone to find the bard. But you took care of those who followed you. That duty had been drilled into her from her earliest years. She'd failed Leliana once, treated her unfairly. She couldn't fail her again. "I can't let her die, Alistair."

"I know," he said softly. "And I know _you_. You don't think clearly when there are darkspawn around, not where your own safety is concerned, anyway. We go together, all of us, as far as it's safe to go, but," his hold on her shoulders tightened, his eyes holding hers, not letting her look away, "when I decide that it's no longer safe, we pull back and turn for Redcliffe. Your word as a Cousland?"

He _did_ know her. That oath would bind her far more surely than a simple promise.

And he was right. She had heard enough tales of the war with Orlais to know that there were times when lives had to be sacrificed, in order that more lives be saved, but reality had never been given the chance to drive that harsh fact to an equal depth with the ideals of honor and duty. Leliana was real to her; the rest of Ferelden, where her greatest duty lay, was a faceless mass that she had never met, but Alistair was as real as the Orlesian, and he needed her. She had a duty to him and the rest of her companions, too.

"My word," she agreed, her voice low and steady, "as a Cousland."


	10. Return To Lothering

She smelled Lothering long before she saw it.

A pall of smoke lay over the land, casting the sun's light into grey haze, and beneath the scents of burned wood and grass lay the odor of scorched flesh that had begun to rot. Underlying it all was the stench of the Blight. Leliana had smelled it often enough when they fought darkspawn: the sickly-sweet smell of decay and corruption, the coppery tang of blood, and…something else. An acrid and bitter undertone that defied description and kept a near-constant surge of bile waiting at the back of her throat. It smelled like nothing else in this world, and while it had been overwhelming when she was locked in combat with the darkspawn, she had always been able to leave it behind quickly once they fell. Now it filled her world, growing stronger with every step she took.

She stumbled and fell to her knees, retching into the grass. She'd had little besides water in her stomach to begin with, and she'd already lost the fight with nausea several times since she had stumbled to her feet from what had passed as her last attempt at sleep. There was nothing left to bring up, and still her stomach tried, heaving until white starbursts filled her vision and her arms and legs wavered, threatening to withdraw even the halfhearted support they offered. She curled her fingers into the grass, feeling the tender blades crush in her grip and pull free of the spongy spring turf from which they grew. She closed her eyes, clenched her teeth, waiting for the worst to pass before she pushed herself to her feet again and set off, one plodding footstep after another.

She didn't know what she was going to do when she finally reached what remained of Lothering. No…that wasn't really true. She would, in all likelihood, die. There were darkspawn in Lothering, after all, and in her present condition, she would be unable to offer much in the way of a fight. The time for fighting was past, anyway. She had already failed them, and to join them in death was no more than she deserved.

The little town had been a haven for her when she had needed it most, and the Chantry had shown her the gift of the Maker's mercy, helped her to cast off the trappings of a life that had nearly killed her. She had been happy there, at peace for the first time in years; why had she left? The power of her vision had faded beneath the grinding reality of being trapped for days on end among companions whose attitudes ranged from indifferent to hostile. Alistair had been kind enough, but even he thought that she was crazy. To the rest of them, she had been the Orlesian, the _spy_ , since Morrigan had so gleefully dragged the truth of her past from her that night, and Talia - what she had seen in the girl's face: revulsion, anger, betrayal, had brought home truths that she had tried hard to hide from herself, even as she sought redemption.

The life of a bard had always been a game to her. That was simply how she had been taught; if you got what you were after without getting caught, you won. Though assassinations had never been a major portion of her duties, she had killed on many occasions, and set up betrayals not dissimilar to Howe's overthrow of Highever on many others. It was all a part of the unending games of intrigue that ran almost constantly between the noble houses of Orlais, and lives lost, when they were thought of at all, were just another way of keeping score.

She had always known that the men and women that she killed had families: spouses, children, but she had never allowed herself to dwell upon it. Those widows and orphans had now been given a face, however, and Leliana knew that there had almost certainly been someone very like what she had once been at Highever, laying the groundwork that Rendon Howe would not have dirtied his hands with.

How many orphans like Talia had she created? How many husbands or wives left behind? And she still lived, while those at Lothering, who lived lives of service and sacrifice, had died. Despite her words, she had always clung to the hope that the town could be completely evacuated before the Blight descended, and the news that it had not been had shattered her. She knew that the Revered Mother would never have left the chantry as long as a soul remained to tend, and that Ser Bryce and his templars would not abandon their duty; who else had remained? Miriam? Devons? They had been her home and family for two years, and if they had treated the beliefs that she had come to hold with disdain, they had not permitted it to affect the sanctuary that they had offered her. She should have remained there, helped to get the townsfolk and refugees all to safety, instead of haring off in search of adventure under the guise of piety.

She was on the West Road now, and cobblestones replaced the grass beneath her feet. The raised highway that crossed the marshes to the west of town bore evidence of the violence that had come there: broken pillars, crumbled edges, crates and boxes left where they had fallen in flight, contents scattered by a foe who had no interest in pillaging, and there ahead…

"No." The word fell from her lips in a moan, and she broke into a weak run, fell and scrambled up again, barely feeling the abraded skin on her palms, seeing only the blood on templar armor and Chantry robes beside the overturned wagon ahead.

The stench of death rose, overwhelming even the darkspawn smell, but she ignored it as she dropped to her knees beside the lifeless body of the Chantry sister, waving away the cloud of flies. Between the wounds that had killed her and the decay, her face was all but gone, but Leliana recognized Evanne's dark hair, and the moan rose to a keening sob. The girl had been tenderhearted and kind, utterly devoted to her calling, but still delighting in Leliana's tales and songs. She had been a friend.

The templar had been killed even more brutally than Evanne, but she thought that she could discern Talbot's blonde locks beneath the blood of his crushed skull. The boy had only been assigned to Lothering since the previous winter, so endearingly sober and eager to please. Other bodies surrounded the wreckage of the wagon, which looked like the one that the greedy merchant had owned, but she recognized no more, and not just because the bodies were decaying. Many of them were missing great chunks of flesh, torn from the face, the arms, the legs and torsos, leaving gaping holes where flies buzzed and maggots writhed.

_"They eat you," old Barlin had proclaimed with an authority that had never felt the need of experience to back it up. "Eat you like a roasted capon, and if you're lucky, you're dead before they start."_

She lifted her eyes, fighting to see through the tears. The haze of smoke had resolved into individual columns that rose fitfully into the eastern sky, and she could just make out what remained of the old windmill that marked Lothering's western boundary. Pushing herself to her feet once more, she drew the daggers sheathed at each hip and started forward, down the stone ramp and onto the dirt road that led into town. She saw no more bodies, but the grass and trees looked yellowed stunted…blighted.

The windmill was a blackened husk, the charred arms reaching heavenward for a salvation that had not been granted. Beyond that, she could see the smoking ruins of the town, scorched timbers jutting up from the wreckage that every structure had been reduced to, and now she saw her first darkspawn.

It was a small band: no more than a dozen hurlocks and genlocks accompanying a single emissary, distinguished from the others by the barbaric bone headdress. They were all clustered together, and some crouched on the ground, tearing great mouthfuls away from…

"NO!" The scream that tore from her throat was raw with pain and grief, and their eyes turned to her as she ran forward, anger giving her a new strength. She heard them laugh, a cruel, snarling sound, and they moved to surround her, plainly in no hurry. She felt the first real tremor of fear; she lunged, sweeping out with a blade, but her target evaded her easily, knocking the blade from her weakened fingers. She shifted her remaining dagger to her right hand, knowing that it was only a matter of time; five days with little food, water or sleep had taken their toll.

_Maker, let me kill one of them. Just one._ She didn't pray for a quick death; she deserved no more grace than the others in Lothering had been given. She wanted only a small measure of justice for the nameless templar whose corpse had become nothing more than food for these monstrosities, and for the gentle girl who had come so close to escape. She backed up, turning until she faced the emissary and raising the dagger in a defiant challenge.

"Just you," she croaked out, her voice rusty from disuse, "or do you fear me so much?"

She had never spoken to the darkspawn before, never given any thought to whether the creatures even possessed the ability to understand human speech, but this one evidently did. The lipless mouth stretched into a horrid rictus, the red-rimmed eyes burning down at her as it uttered a harsh command in its own tongue, causing the others to draw back as it stepped closer to her, drawing a blood crusted sword from a tattered belt at its hip.

Armored footsteps sounded on the ground. The emissary raised its gaze from Leliana, but Talia was already upon it, knocking the bard to the ground as she passed, her sword flickering like lightning in the hazy air. Truly flickering, Leliana realized dazedly, wondering if she was hallucinating, for the the sword the Warden was wielding was not her family's blade, but another longsword, the metal an odd silver-blue and coruscating with magic.

_Always take out the spell caster first._ It was a tactic they had quickly established when they fought together, and one that Talia now put into brutal practice, slashing the throat to the spine and opening the belly of her target with two savage sweeps, then spinning and backing away from the ragged circle with a taunting laugh as the emissary fell.

"Who's next?" she queried with deliberate insolence, but when one lunged for her, she parried it and danced back further, just out of reach, striking the hilt of her sword to her shield in a ringing challenge, the shimmering blade flaring brighter at the contact. "Come on, then!"

As one, they moved to follow her, Leliana seemingly forgotten, and the bard felt a swell of panic. It was not a hallucination if they saw her, too, and not even in her most manic rage could Talia hope to defeat so many. The Warden was going to die…because of her. She saw the young warrior take two more steps back and stumble, falling to the ground.

_No!_ She scrambled through the dust, her fingers closing around the hilt of the dagger she had lost, struggling to rise. Their backs were to her; she could -

A heavy weight pinned her unexpectedly to the earth. "Stay down!" Alistair's voice hissing in her ear as he pressed her down, pulling his shield over them both. A flare of heat flashed by overhead, then blossomed in front of them, a blast of hot air rushing back over them as the fireball exploded, sending the darkspawn flying in all directions.

Talia sprang up from where she had dropped before the wash of heat had passed, the sweep of her shield knocking back a genlock as it tried to rise, and her sword separating its head from its shoulders. She was lunging at another before the body of the first had hit the ground. Alistair was on his feet a moment later, drawing his sword from its sheath as he moved to cover her back. "For the Grey Wardens!"

" _Katara, bas!_ " Sten's rumbling shout announced his arrival, his massive blade cleaving through the darkspawn like a scythe reaping grain. Beside him, Brego's teeth rent through flesh and sinew in a spray of black blood. The ground shook as Shale's massive fists pulverized his chosen opponent, and the air came alive with magic: lightning, frost, fire, Morrigan's voice rising and falling as she cast spell after spell, separating friend from foe as cleanly as any blade.

Leliana sat on the ground, watching the rout with a curiously detached sense of bemusement. She should be helping them, but instead, she found her gaze drawn past the fighting, to the ruins of the Chantry. The daggers slipped from her hands as she pushed herself upright, weaving around the edges of the battle, her eyes fixed upon the doorframe, the blackened wooden doors swaying in the wind. Through it, she could see the charred remains of the pews and the altar, the statue of Andraste toppled from its pedestal, shattered and coated with soot, the candles melted into so many puddles of wax. The roof had been burned away, leaving only the charred timbers overhead, like the ribs of some great dead beast.

Tears rolled down her cheeks unchecked, and she allowed her legs to fold beneath her for the last time. Behind her, the sounds of combat came to an abrupt halt, and Talia's voice spoke up.

"Spread out, look for any survivors."

Sten's reply: "That is hardly likely. Our time would be put to better use -"

"Just do it, damn it!"

It was a lost cause. Leliana knew it, but she couldn't speak through the sobs that choked her, couldn't look away from the ravaged remains of the tiny building that had once welcomed a weary and wounded soul into its heart.

Steel clattered to the ground, and Talia was kneeling beside her, hugging her wordlessly. She sagged against the Warden, aware of Alistair dropping to his knees behind them, his greater embrace enfolding them both, Brego nosing under Talia's arm with a low whine.

"You shouldn't have come," she sobbed out, burying her face in her hands. "I should have died with them. The vision was a lie!"

"No, it wasn't." Talia's voice in her ear, thick with emotion and awe. "Look." A gloved hand beneath her chin, gently lifting her head. "Look, Leliana," she urged again, and the bard obeyed, her eyes sliding past the smoldering ruin, into the Chantry garden.

It had been burned, as well, and the stunted rosebush in the corner was no longer brown, but black, its spindly branches completely bereft of leaves, but at the end of one stem, the rose still bloomed, a rich and vibrant red, the petals as soft as if it had just opened.

* * *

She awoke in her tent, and spent several moments trying to remember how she had gotten there. The previous five nights, she had simply collapsed to the ground when she could no longer walk and dozed fitfully until she was able to continue.

Slowly, the events of the day returned to her, but past the fight, everything remained fuzzy. She thought that she might have grown hysterical after they had failed to find any survivors. She had not honestly expected that they would, but exhaustion had decimated her defenses. She had a vague and odd recollection of floating on a swaying stone pallet, but beyond that, nothing.

She pushed away the blankets, found that she had been peeled out of her filthy armor and clothes and put into her nightdress. Not that it had done much for the smell; she was in desperate need of a bath.

The smell… She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully, but she could not detect the darkspawn stench that had been so pervasive earlier in the day, nor the scents of death and decay. They had moved well away from Lothering, then. The odor of herbs and meat wafting from the fire made her stomach give a sudden gurgle.

Pulling a blanket around her shoulders, she ducked through the flap of the tent. The blackness of the sky, with its profusion of stars, proclaimed the night to be well advanced. Talia sat beside the fire, staring into the flames, with Brego stretched out at her side. No one else was in evidence. The mabari lifted his head as Leliana emerged, giving a soft chuff of greeting. Talia lifted her eyes and rolled smoothly to her feet.

"How are you?" she asked in a quiet voice as she approached, dark eyes watching Leliana carefully.

"All right, I think," the bard replied, surprised by how much effort it took to speak. She was still almost unbelievably tired. "Hungry," she admitted, almost ashamedly. After what she had seen, how could she possibly have an appetite? But with the air no longer filled with nauseating odors, her body had no qualms about demanding what it had shown no interest in over the previous days, giving another audible rumble.

Talia nodded, seeming neither shocked nor disapproving. "I - we tried to wake you at suppertime, but you were pretty well out." She nodded toward the fire. "Sit down and I'll get you something."

Leliana wanted to protest that she could do it, but she could feel her legs shaking beneath her already. She tottered to the fireside and stood for a moment, unsure if she could lower herself without falling. Brego rose to his feet and lumbered to her side, sliding his head beneath her hand, and she gratefully leaned into his mass as she sat.

Talia glanced back from where she crouched beside the fire, ladling stew from the iron pot into a wooden bowl. "Don't think you're getting a free snack out of that," she warned him. The dog whined a protest, sinking to the ground beside Leliana.

"He's sweet," Leliana said, scratching behind Brego's ears, earning a contented rumble from the beast.

"He's a slave to his stomach," Talia countered with no real heat as she turned from the fire, holding the bowl out to Leliana, waiting to see that the bard's hands held it steady before removing her own. As she turned back to the fire, Leliana quickly fished a chunk of meat from the bowl and dropped it to the ground in front of the mabari. It was gone before she had finished blinking, and well before Talia turned back to offer her a hunk of bread. "But, since he did catch the rabbits for dinner -" In her other hand, she held a raw hindquarter that she tossed to the dog. Leliana smiled, though she had to turn her eyes away from the bloody flesh as Brego began to eat.

"Sorry," Talia said with a grimace as she settled to the ground on the other side of the dog. "I can send him away to eat -"

"No." Leliana felt the dog's muscles bunching underneath her arm and shook her head, leaning against him. "He needs to eat, too. I'll be fine."

The mabari settled back to the ground and continued devouring his prize. Leliana turned her attention to her own meal. The bread was a traveler's loaf, and had to be soaked in the broth of the soup before it could be eaten, but the soup itself was good: wild onions and garlic, mushrooms and tubers had been added to the rabbit, along with a delicate blend of herbs. "Morrigan cooked, I take it?" Sten's notion of cooking was tossing some source of meat onto the fire until the outside was black, and Alistair's dishes all seemed to have the same bland flavor and consistency. Talia was learning, but the subtlety of the seasoning bespoke an accomplished touch.

Talia nodded. "We all ate it, so it should be safe," she said with a hint of a smile. The witch's herb lore extended beyond the culinary and healing arts, and Leliana had seen her harvesting poisonous plants on numerous occasions, though she had never seen Morrigan make use of them.

"She doesn't like me much, does she?"

The Warden shrugged. "She's never been around this many people for so long before. I think it scares her."

The bard stared at Talia in disbelief. "Scares her? I've never seen her acting afraid of anything!"

"She hides it pretty well," Talia admitted, "but you can see it sometimes. She starts sniping at Alistair more when she's afraid. I don't think she hates him quite as much as she wants us to think; he's just a good target because she can goad him easily."

"Maybe," Leliana agreed dubiously. She'd never seen anything remotely like fear in the witch, and her loathing of the Warden who had once trained to be a templar certainly seemed genuine, but Talia had spent more time with her. "Who else is on watch?"

"Shale." Talia tipped her head upward, and Leliana could make out the golem's massive form at the top of the hollow in which they were camped.

"He carried me, didn't he?" she asked, suddenly connecting the feeling of floating on stone. "I didn't think that he would do that after his master made him do it for so long."

"I asked him," Talia said simply. "It seems to work better than ordering."

"Yes," Leliana said, feeling her throat tighten. "It usually does." She stirred her soup for a moment, then said, "You have a new sword, yes?" An inane question, perhaps, but she was not quite ready to ask her other question and receive the answer that she knew would be forthcoming.

Talia nodded, glancing down at the sword at her hip. "Mikhael Dryden gave it to me before we left Soldier's Peak. He said that he saw a star fall from the sky a few months ago, and when he went looking for it, he found a big, smoking hole in the ground with a chunk of metal at the bottom: starmetal, he called it. He made a sword from it, could have sold it for a fortune, especially after Sandal enchanted it, but he said that he wanted it to help end the Blight."

She grasped the hilt, sliding the blade a few inches out of its sheath, revealing the silver-blue of the metal, the intricately etched lyrium runes along the flat of the blade still gleaming faintly. "He calls it Starfang. I didn't want to give up my father's sword, but...it's sharper than anything I've ever seen, and with Sandal's enchantments, it cuts through almost anything but solid rock." She ducked her head, looking almost ashamed as she returned the sword to its scabbard. "I left the Cousland sword with Mikhael; he's going to clean it up and put a good edge on it, but even then..." She trailed off, her eyes on the ground.

"It is a family heirloom," Leliana assured her gently. "It should receive such care, and there is no shame in taking up a more effective weapon." She stopped short of saying that Talia's parents would have approved; though she was certain it was true, she lacked the courage to test that delicate subject again so soon. "That was not why you insisted that Alistair take the Grey Warden sword that we found at the keep, though, was it?"

Talia gave her a sidelong glance and shook her head. "Being a Grey Warden means more to him," she said with a slight shrug, "and the sword I had was better than the one he'd been carrying. It made more sense for him to have it."

"Yes," Leliana agreed, smiling warmly at the girl. Being a Grey Warden might not mean a great deal to Talia, but it was a duty that she took seriously, and the past tragedy that had been revealed at Soldier's Peak seemed to have largely drawn her out of the self-absorption of her grief. Perhaps now the closeness that was growing between she and Alistair might take a more romantic turn. The notion appealed to her: that something as precious as love might still be able to blossom amid so much pain and loss. "What happened? In Lothering, I mean. After I -" She hesitated awkwardly.

"Fainted?" Talia finished for her, looking suddenly uncomfortable. "You should finish eating first."

The bard obeyed, and though the soup had suddenly lost its appeal, she emptied the bowl and finished the bread, as well, washing it down with the waterskin that Talia passed her. "Tell me, please," she said, setting the empty bowl aside for Brego to polish and drawing the blanket more closely around herself.

Talia nodded. "We didn't find anyone else alive," she said heavily, turning her eyes back to the fire. "We looked for a bit longer after you fainted, then we piled the dead together and burned them. We didn't have time for a proper pyre, but at least now, they can't be desecrated any longer." Her face was drawn and weary, her eyes shining a bit too brightly in the light of the flames, but no tears fell.

Leliana was not so strong. "How many?" she asked, feeling the dampness on her cheeks.

"Ser Bryce and eight templars," Talia replied softly. "Elder Miriam and the Revered Mother." She'd expected it, but the confirmation still hurt, and she let out a gasping sob.

Talia reached across Brego, laying a hand on her shoulder. "There were about a dozen more that I didn't recognize," she went on, "and another ten in the wagon with the other templar and the Chantry sister. We burned their bodies, too, as we left." She tilted her head until she was looking into Leliana's eyes. "There were hundreds of people here before. They got almost all of them out."

"The Revered Mother would not have left, so long as even one remained," Leliana whispered. "Nor would Miriam."

"No, I wouldn't expect that they would have," the Warden agreed. "They were good people."

"Why -" Leliana began and stopped, her mouth working soundlessly. "Why did you come after me? You had to know there would be no survivors."

"Well, there was you," Talia reminded her, "or do you think that the Revered Mother would have wanted you to throw your life away?"

"I don't -" She broke off again, because she _did_ know. She lifted her eyes to Talia's face. The brown eyes were gentler than she had ever seen, but beneath the compassion, she could see the pain that the girl still would not surrender to. "But why? When you know what I am?"

Talia drew her hand back, wrapping her arms around her knees as her gaze returned to the dancing flames. "I can barely remember what I was like before," she said at last. "That girl seems so silly to me now. Innocent. Ignorant. So sure that the way things had always been was the way they would always be. I want to shake her. Warn her."

She shook her head slowly. "I can't believe that it's been only a little more than two months since Highever…fell. It seems like a lifetime. Maybe some of that girl will come back to me in time. She doesn't seem as much of a stranger as she did a few weeks ago, but I'll never be her again. Not really."

Brego whined softly, butting his head against his mistress' leg, and she dropped a hand to his neck and began to scratch. "Two months," she repeated softly, turning her head back to Leliana, dark eyes somber. "If I can change to the point that I barely know myself in so little time, what could two years do? I know what you were," she went on before Leliana could speak, "and I know what you are now."

Her hand left Brego's neck, slipping into the pouch at her hip. "I found this with - at the Chantry," she said, withdrawing her hand and extending it toward Leliana. The bard caught the gleam of firelight on metal between the girl's fingers. "I thought that you should have it."

"I…can't." She could see the medallion now, Andraste's flame in bronze, softened by the fire, but not melted. She shook her head, refusing to take the icon. "I am not worthy to wear it."

"Then it should be returned to the Chantry," Talia replied, undeterred. "By one of their own, don't you think?" Her hand remained extended, her gaze unwavering, her apology hovering unspoken between them.

Slowly, Leliana reached out. Her hand closed around the medallion, then remained where it was, resting in Talia's. After a moment's hesitation, the Warden's fingers folded around hers.


	11. Dreamwalking

"Talia!"

She turned to see Oren running headlong atop the high garden wall. She heard Oriana gasp behind her, but the boy was already at the edge and jumping. She reached up, catching him easily, feeling small arms encircling her neck and sticky lips kissing her cheek, hearing a child's high, clear laugh rising in the air.

"Honey cakes?" She drew back, glaring at him in mock accusation. "And you didn't bring me any?"

He grinned unrepentantly, showing the gap where one of his front teeth had come out earlier in the week, then screamed with delight as she tossed him over one shoulder and carried him up the slope to join their mothers in the garden.

"You shouldn't encourage him," Oriana scolded her. "He's getting too big for such antics. What if you drop him?"

"Too big?" Talia gripped him by the ankles and dangled him in the air briefly before lowering him to the ground. "He's got a long way to go before he's too big for me."

"But at the rate he's been growing, he will get there all too quickly," Eleanor Cousland reminded her daughter. "Ease your sister's mind and promise her?"

"You heard them, Oren," Talia told her nephew, tousling his hair. "No more jumping off the wall."

The boy nodded, looking properly penitent, but the sly gleam in his eye just before he darted off made it clear that he understood her: _Not when they're watching, anyway._

"You're good with him," Oriana told her with a smile. "You'll be a wonderful mother."

"That's getting a bit ahead of things," the Teyrna put in, giving her daughter a pointed look. "I'd be happy just to see her in the company of a young man first."

"For what…sparring?" Talia asked, feigning ignorance. "If that's the case, I'll need at least three. The new recruits are a lazy bunch."

"Talia!" Oriana gasped, looking scandalized. "Such a thing is hardly seemly." She looked the model of the proper wife, but there was the faintest hint of mischief in her eyes as she added, "Such matters must be handled with discretion. Never let the exact number of your lovers be known."

"You're not helping." Eleanor tried for sternness, but laughter won out. Oriana's eyes had not strayed from Fergus since their handfasting, and the Teyrna knew it. Talia joined in the laughter, but she could tell from her mother's expression that the lecture was not over.

"That Orlesian tailor should be here sometime in the next month, and none too soon," she announced, peering up at her youngest in exasperation. "You've completely outgrown the dresses I had made for you last year."

"I didn't do it on purpose," Talia replied innocently, though if she had known of a way to do just that, she wouldn't have hesitated. "Maybe you should wait until I'm done growing?"

"I'll be putting a flatiron on your head if you grow any more," her mother retorted. "You're near as tall as Fergus already."

"I'm not that tall," Talia protested. She'd been a bit self conscious about her height last year, when her growth had outstripped her coordination, leaving her struggling with limbs that seemed to have doubled in length overnight, but she had simply pushed herself all the harder at her swordwork, until she had regained the ground lost and then some.

"Sure you are," Fergus said as he joined them with Oren clinging to his back. "You'll have to double her dowry, Mother, to get a man to accept a wife who looks down at him." He grinned at his younger sister, easily dodging the swat she aimed at his head.

"I'm sure that a man would have a harder time accepting a wife who would rather cross swords with him than dance with him," Eleanor observed tartly. "I was a battlemaid of no small skill, but it was the gentler arts that won me a husband."

"What if I don't want a husband yet?" Talia groused, accepting Oren as the boy scrambled from his father's back into her arms. "It's not like there's anyone around who – what are you doing, Sprout?" Oren was twisting in her arms, reaching downward.

"Want to see your sword!" he demanded, reaching for the hilt of Starfang as she set him down.

"It's not a toy, Oren," she reprimanded him, as she gently but firmly peeled his hands away before he could pull the shimmering blade from its sheath.

_Starfang? But…_

"Talia? What's wrong?" Her mother put a cool hand to her brow, and Talia realized that she had been swaying.

"Nothing." She gave her head a little shake. "It's just –"

_Starfang isn't here, it's after here…after…_

"Where…where did I get this sword?"

_After what?_

Her mother and brother exchanged a worried glance. "Father had it made for you, remember?" Fergus said. "That traveling smith…Dryden, wasn't it?"

"Not Dryden," Oriana said abruptly, shaking her head. "I can't remember his name, but it wasn't that."

"No," Talia agreed without thinking. "The Drydens are at Soldier's Peak."

_Where?_

"Where?" Fergus echoed her thoughts unknowingly. "Mother, I think you might want to summon the healer."

"No, I'm fine." Talia stared down at the hilt of the longsword that she knew had been forged from starmetal, trying to remember how she knew.

_Soldier's Peak? Where is that? Dryden?_

"Arl Howe…he attacked us…" She frowned, trying to grasp at memories that slid out of her reach like quicksilver. "Didn't he? And you." She stared at Fergus. "You were riding to Ostagar, to lead our militia against the Blight, with King Cailan."

The look that her mother gave her was full of tender concern. "That was a nightmare you had, love. You had a fever, don't you remember?" She looked anxiously to her son.

"Sit down, Pup, and let Mother bring the healer to look you over," he told Talia reassuringly. "There was never a Blight, and Rendon Howe is Father's closest friend." He put a hand on her shoulder, but she pulled away.

"You never call me Pup." She frowned at him. "Where is Father?"

_He's dead. Howe killed him when –_

"I'm right here, Pup." Bryce Cousland slipped an arm around his daughter's shoulders, regarding her quizzically. "What's wrong?"

"I think she may have gotten hit on the head in sword practice," Fergus replied worriedly. "She's talking about that nightmare again."

"It was a dream, Pup," her father soothed her with a hug, and she felt herself relaxing, but the questions refused to be stilled. "Just a dream."

_If it was a dream, how did I get Starfang? Starfang isn't here, Starfang comes after…after what?_

Her hand gripped the hilt more tightly as Oriana said. "Perhaps it is time that she gives up such things. It seems so unnatural, a woman fighting in battles. Perhaps it is not good for her."

"I wouldn't go that far," Fergus protested. "She enjoys it, and there's no denying that she's good at it. Besides," he added, giving his wife a sly glance, "I've heard that Antivan women are plenty dangerous."

"Only with kindness and poisons, husband," came the prim reply.

His laugh rang out. "This from the woman who brings me my tea!"

Eleanor and Bryce's laughter joined Fergus', and Oren began laughing, too, simply because the adults were. The sound was sweet, drawing Talia in, but –

"No." She backed away, shaking her head slowly, staring down at the sword. "This isn't right. This sword shouldn't be here. It belongs…after."

_After what?_

"If it troubles you, Pup, give it to me and I'll put it away for now." Her father extended a hand to her, his brown eyes warm with concern, and Talia felt a wave of relief. Yes, that was it. She'd let him put the sword away, and the troubling thoughts would go with it. Her father always knew what to do. She shifted her hand to her sword belt.

_Mikhael Dryden made the sword. He saw the star fall from the sky and found the starmetal and made the sword. He gave it to you at Soldier's Peak, to use against the darkspawn; that came after Lothering, and that came after Ostagar and Duncan, and that came after -_

"You're dead." She took another step back, her hand returning to Starfang's hilt, feeling the enchantments that thrummed within it.

_Sandal enchanted it, Sandal Feddic, Bodahn's son that he found on the Deep Roads…_

_Who?_

"You're dead, all of you." She pulled the sword from its sheath, holding it in front of her like a talisman. "I remember."

Her father sighed. "You see us now, don't you?" he asked, his voice softly persuasive. "You're with your family. We love you. That's all that matters, isn't it?"

"I –" The tip of the sword wavered. This was what she had wanted, wasn't it? Why question the nature of the miracle by which it had occurred? "I don't –"

"Talia?" Oren was coming toward her, hands outstretched. "Can I see your sword?"

"Let him hold it, Talia," Fergus urged her. "You know how much he wants to see a sword."

She stared down at the boy, his sweetly familiar features blurring into the face of another child.

_Connor._

_Redcliffe. Arl Eamon poisoned. His son possessed by a demon. They'd gone to the Mages' Circle seeking help, only to find the tower in chaos, overrun by blood mages and demons. Rage demons. Lust demons._

_The sloth demon._

_Leliana. Alistair. Morrigan. Shale. Sten. Brego. Wynne._

_Where are they?_

"You lie!" She lashed out, saw Oren fall just as any child would fall, blood fountaining from his throat. She stared down at the tiny body in horror, then back at the faces of her family.

Oriana moved first, smiling reassuringly as she stepped over the motionless corpse of her son. "It's all right, Talia. He'll be fine. You just need to lie down for a bit, and he'll be just fine, I promise."

She screamed. No words, just raw grief and fury as she lashed out again and again, seeing them fall, seeing other shapes springing to life around her, looming and hungry. She fought them all, screaming in mindless rage until she stood alone, and a voice both alien and familiar rose in her mind.

_"SO BE IT."_

She stumbled and fell to her knees. Highever was gone, replaced by an indistinct world that shifted and shimmered, forming into half-familiar landscapes before curling once more into vague mists. And still, their faces hung before her, pleading even in death, and she tipped her head back and howled, clutching Starfang in a white-knuckled grip.

"Kill you!" she raged, coming to her feet. "I'll kill you, you bastard!" She swung the sword at the ground, the sky, the empty air around her, screaming challenge after challenge to the demon until the battle rage faded and she was left exhausted…and still alone.

_No…please_.

"Alistair?" She lifted her head, looking, listening, straining to catch any reply in a silence that was as deafening as the roar of the crowd at a Grand Tournament.

"Leliana? Brego? Morrigan? Anyone? Can anyone hear me?"

_Am I dead?_ She wandered through the ever changing world, calling out to her friends, her family, anyone, becoming more certain with every step that she was indeed dead, and this was the Void where she would spend eternity in tormented solitude, until she heard a voice raised in response, saw a figure in the distance and moved almost fearfully toward it.

* * *

"Talia!" Alistair's face lit up as he saw her. "You finally made it! I've been waiting to introduce you to everyone!"

"We don't have time for this." She ignored the Grey Wardens who surrounded him. The memories of her family falling to her blade were still seared into her mind, and she was in no mood to make things any easier on her friend than she had had it. "You need to come with me, right now."

"Come with you?" He looked at her in puzzlement. "But we're getting ready to have a drinking contest! Gregor says that he can drink a full mug of ale for every half mug the rest of us can down."

"He already beat you at that," Talia replied, barely glancing at the tall, burly knight with the bushy beard. "You told me about it, remember?"

"Did he? Did I?" Alistair frowned, then shook his head. "It doesn't matter. The Blight is over with; it's time for the Grey Wardens to celebrate!" He raised a mug high to cheers from the other Wardens, then took a deep swallow, holding a second mug out to her.

She knocked it aside.

"Alistair, think!" she snapped. "How did the Blight end? Can you tell me that?"

He didn't seem to have heard her, his attention focused on the puddle of ale at his feet. "That wasn't very nice," he protested, looking wounded.

"Indeed." Anger suffused her at the sound of Duncan's voice, growing as the senior Warden stepped into her field of vision, looking exactly as she – and Alistair – remembered him. "I think that Talia is perhaps not a true Grey Warden. I will escort her out and see her safely on her way."

"Wait." Alistair looked baffled. "Not…not a Grey Warden? She completed the Joining. You always said that there is no going back."

"That was before," Duncan replied, "but with the Blight ended and Cailan safely on the throne, we no longer need to make such harsh demands. It will be better for her."

"Yes, well…if you say so." His forehead creased slightly, his eyes taking on that worried look. "I'll walk out with you, then."

"That won't be necessary," Duncan assured him, reaching for Talia's arm.

She pulled away. "Cailan's dead! Your brother is dead!" she shouted at him. "Do you remember telling me that? Do you remember telling me that you were Maric's son? Do you remember what I said? Not just a bastard, but a royal bastard?" She'd been furious with him, refusing to speak to him for nearly a day, but her anger had cooled when she realized what the circumstances of his birth meant, and how terrified he was at the prospect that he might find himself on the throne.

He looked at her dazedly, a half smile on his lips. "I…I do remember that," he said with a little laugh. "I said I'd have to remember that line."

"That doesn't matter," Duncan stepped between them, his face stern. "Cailan is the King of Ferelden, and Alistair is a Grey Warden, as he should be."

"How was the Blight ended?" she challenged him. "How was the archdemon killed?"

The senior Warden frowned at her. "I do not need to explain such things to you."

"Because you don't know," Talia shot back, pushing past him. "He doesn't know because you don't know," she told Alistair. "The sloth demon took him from your memory! We're trapped in the Fade! None of this is real!"

He stared at her. "Sloth demon?" he said slowly. "The Fade?"

"She's unbalanced, Alistair," Duncan warned him, taking a firmer grasp on her arm. She dug in her heels as he tried to pull her away.

" _Think_ , Alistair! What's the last thing that you remember?"

"The last thing?" The furrows in his brow reappeared, deepened. "Well, it was…" He trailed off, his eyes widening. "The Circle. The tower and…that demon telling us to rest…"

Two blessings: she knew beyond a doubt this time that the people that she killed weren't real, and she didn't fight alone.

Well, three blessings, actually: she had more than her sword to fight with now.

"How…how did you do that?" Alistair's face was pale and his eyes slightly wild as he watched her change back from the Burning Man form. Demon corpses lay smoking all around them, and not all had shifted from their guises in death.

"Long story," she told him wearily. "The others are still trapped in their own dreams in the Fade…at least, I hope they are." Her mind was still swimming with all that she had seen and done, and the powers bequeathed to her by the souls that she had released were a near constant pressure behind her eyes. You could die in the Fade; Niall had warned her, and she'd seen it for herself. Had any of the others perished trying to escape their dreams?

"Well, when we find them, don't tell them that it managed to fool me so completely." He looked embarrassed, but there was more than a touch of hurt behind it, as well, and she felt a twinge of guilt. "I can't believe that I - wait - what?"

He was fading away; Talia's hand passed through his as she tried to grab him, and he was gone with a final, indignant yelp.

She was alone again.

* * *

"Who's this?"

The two qunari beside the campfire regarded her impassively.

"We have a guest." Sten barked. "Make room."

"You heard the Sten," one of them growled, shoving the other aside.

" _The_ Sten?" Talia cocked her head, regarding the warrior curiously. "Why do they call you that?"

He sighed. "Can I not be free from your incessant queries, even in my dreams?"

She blinked. "You mean, you know that this is -"

"A dream," he finished for her, looking irritated. "Yes. I am not a fool. It is a dream." He nodded at the pair by the fire. He looked around, at the campfires that dotted the ground as far as the eye could see, at the qunari gathered around those fires, talking in low, controlled voices among themselves, then down at the massive sword in his hands. The blade was plain, but obviously well made and meticulously cared for, the edge gleaming in the firelight. "But it is a good dream," he concluded, his harsh features settling into an expression of melancholy, letting the flat of the blade rest on one broad shoulder.

"It's just another cage, Sten."

"And if I leave this cage, I will simply be in another cage," he replied flatly. "One of my own making."

"You owe your Arishok a report," she reminded him.

"One that I cannot deliver," he replied through gritted teeth, looking past her into the night.

_Damn it._ She drew herself up to her full height, glaring at him. "If you want to abandon your duty to your people, that is your choice, but you swore to follow me until the Blight was ended."

"And yet, we waste our time trying to save a group of mages," he uttered the last word like a curse, "so that they may in turn save a single child who is possessed by a demon."

"You weren't given the option of questioning my methods when you swore to follow me." She could feel the eyes of the other two on her, coldly evaluating. She drew her sword. "I do not release you from that oath. Either follow me or fight me."

"You swore to follow this puny thing, Sten?" one of the pair queried as they pushed themselves to their feet, unlimbering weapons that were nearly as tall as Talia.

"Stand down," he ordered harshly. "I must go with her."

The qunari shook his head. "We can't let you go."

Either the demons of the Fade were getting weaker, or she was just getting used to fighting them. Having an angry qunari on her side probably didn't hurt, either.

"How do we leave this - wait…more tricks?"

"See you later," she muttered resignedly as he faded from sight. "I hope."

And then she was alone.

* * *

"Come in, child. 'Tis cold outside!"

_Flemeth?_

The face was undeniably that of Morrigan's mother, but the gracious smile and pleasant tone were something that Talia had never associated with the Witch of the Wilds.

The hut was much as she remembered it: small and neatly kept, with a pot of something savory bubbling over the fire, but Morrigan's golden eyes were crackling with vexation as she watched the Warden enter.

"It is about time you got here!" she snapped. "Kill this creature and let us begone!"

"Why haven't you?" Talia asked her, since it was obvious that Morrigan was aware of the deception.

Morrigan gave her a look generally reserved for imbeciles. "I cannot, you idiot. Not unless she raises a hand to me first. Would you like to guess how likely _that_ is?"

"Don't be so cross, pet," the apparition chided her with a loving pat on the cheek. "Your friend has come a long way to see you; at least let her eat before she leaves us."

Morrigan recoiled from the hand as though it were a viper. "Do not touch me!" she fumed, looking even angrier when 'Flemeth' seemed to take no notice of her ire, giving her a loving smile before turning to the fire. "This…this thing…is even more irritating than the real Flemeth! Kill her or kill me, but put me out of my misery!"

Talia shrugged, drawing her sword and slicing through the neck of the doppelganger. It dropped to the floor of the hut without so much as a twitch; the Warden braced herself for the appearance of more demons, but none came.

"That was easy," she remarked, glancing around warily.

"Easy for you," Morrigan sniffed. "You haven't been stuck with this simpering fool. One would think that a demon could create a better illusion."

"Maybe it could," Talia suggested, "but since this is your dream, doesn't that mean that this is how you wanted Flemeth to be?"

The golden eyes narrowed, and Talia heard the witch muttering something in what sounded like the Chasind tongue as she vanished. It definitely didn't sound like a 'Thank you.'

And then she was alone again.

* * *

The Lothering chantry was restored. Candles glowed softly in their alcoves along the nave, penitents and worshippers sat in the pews or knelt before the altar, while sisters, priests and templars moved in reverent silence among them. It was by far the strongest illusion Talia had encountered since leaving her own dream. She could smell the incense and the candles, hear the whispered prayers, feel the stone of the floor beneath her boots.

The Revered Mother watched her as she approached, calm with just a hint of steel beneath the placid green eyes. "Please do not disturb our worshipers," she instructed the Warden.

Talia ignored her, eyes fixed on the figure that knelt beside her, garbed once more in a Chantry robe, head bowed and hands folded in prayer, face hidden beneath the fall of auburn hair. "Leliana."

"She seeks peace," the clergywoman warned her. "Please be so kind as to leave her to that worthy pursuit."

Talia was tempted to simply run the impostor through, but Leliana was not Morrigan, and the warrior did not know what effect slaying the demon might have if the spell of the dream was not broken first.

The bard raised her head, regarding the newcomer curiously. "Who is this?" she asked, rising slowly to her feet.

Talia felt her heart sink. The others had at least recognized her. "It's Talia Cousland. The Grey Warden? Remember?"

Blue eyes studied her without a trace of recognition. "I'm afraid I don't," she murmured, but something rippled just below the surface. "Revered Mother, I don't know this person, do I?"

"Of course not, my child," the demon soothed her. "You've lived here in the chantry all your life. She is part of the sinful and dangerous world beyond these walls…and she was just leaving." The green eyes met hers, openly challenging now. "Leliana belongs here, with us." A wrinkled hand gently smoothed the Orlesian's hair.

"You lie," Talia replied flatly, turning back to the bard. "You don't belong here, Leliana," she said carefully, trying to decide how to proceed, and how hard to push. The destruction of Lothering and the deaths there had devastated the woman. "This isn't real. Remember where you were before you came here: the Mages' Circle? The Tower? We were fighting abominations?"

Leliana's eyes widened. "I…think you must have me confused with someone else," she said softly. "If you will excuse me -"

"Do you at least remember why you were with us?" Talia persisted. "Your dream? Your vision? The Maker wanting you to help turn back the Blight?" _Maker, if you do intervene in this world, now would be a very good time…_

"You…you know about that?" The bard glanced to the false clergywoman in confusion. "Revered Mother, how -"

"We have already discussed this, child," the demon replied smoothly. "The dream was simply your pride, seeking to impose its own will over that of the Maker. Go now, and resume your meditations." She stepped in front of Talia as she moved to follow Leliana, her gaze coldly triumphant.

_Fine. I'll do it myself._

"Do you remember Lothering?" Talia shouted after her. _Last chance, and then I start killing. Damn it, Leliana, remember!_ "The darkspawn destroyed it, killed the Revered Mother, Miriam, the templars!" Leliana turned, her expression shocked, and then Talia saw it: the faintest ripple in the world around them, like a tapestry stirred by a breeze.

"Remember Talbot and Evanne?" she pressed relentlessly. "They _ate_ them, Leliana! Remember that? Remember the rose? We all saw it; it was real, and so was your dream." The ripples were growing, and from the corner of her eye, Talia saw several templars moving toward her. "It was real. _This_ is the lie!" She drew her sword, driving it point first into the floor; it sank into the wavering stone without a sound.

The bard turned to the 'Revered Mother', eyes widening in dawning horror, then drew the dagger from her belt with a furious cry and buried the blade in the woman's chest. The illusion dissolved, taking the templars with it and leaving them surrounded by demons.

_Too many._ She shifted effortlessly, expanding into golem form, sending some of their attackers flying, and simply pulverizing others beneath her massive fists, feeling their attacks sliding off of her stone skin like rain.

_I could get used to this._ She could understand now why Shale seemed to like the idea of squishing things. There was something viscerally satisfying about the brute strength of it all.

"Maker!" Leliana gasped, staring up at her, eyes even wider than Alistair's had been.

_Oops._ She shifted back quickly. She wasn't sure how long she'd been in the Fade, but it was increasingly hard to remember that she hadn't always been able to change shapes at will, and that her companions had never seen it. "It's all right. It's just me, I promise."

"Where are we?" The bard stared around wildly. "That…that _thing_ was in my mind! It used me -"

"It used us all," Talia told her, hoping to calm her before -

"What - what's happening?" Leliana's voice rose further in alarm as she began to shimmer and fade. "Talia!"

"It's all right!" Talia called to her again, unsure if she heard and hoping that the words were true. The other souls she had freed in the Fade had rejoined their bodies…at least, she thought that was what had happened.

And once again, she found herself alone.

* * *

Wynne. Brego. Shale. She kept moving, through one door to another, until she found them each and released them.

Then she stepped through the final portal and found herself facing the sloth demon.

And she was not alone.


	12. Swords, Souls and Storms

"You're sure you don't mind staying outside?"

"I spent more than enough time cooped up in that tower," Shale replied. "There looks to be a storm brewing, and the rain will wash the last of the demon bits from me. Amazing how squishy they were."

The golem lifted his head to regard the rising thunderheads in the west, the light from the setting sun casting the sky into reds and golds behind them, and streaks of lightning flickering through their churning depths. "I'd invite it to stay and watch the show, but all that steel would surely attract a stray bolt or two, and then where would it be?"

"Dead, most likely," Talia murmured, watching the coming storm with some regret. She'd loved storms at Highever, when the wind and rain lashed the peaks, and the lighting often seemed to be flashing right outside the windows. She'd snuck out on more than one occasion to feel the rain on her face, but if she wanted to do that now, she was going to have to get out of the plate armor. She'd seen lightning strike the copper rods on the castle peaks often enough to know electricity's affinity for metal.

"Enjoy the storm, then," she told Shale, "and thank you for helping us in the tower."

The golem's massive head cocked. "It has said those words to me before. What do they mean?"

Talia frowned. "Thank you? It just means that I appreciate your help, that's all."

"I do not do it for your appreciation; the path that you travel simply happens to interest me for the moment."

"That doesn't make it any less helpful." That phenomenal strength and resistance to many of the magics that had been hurled against them had been a crucial edge.

"Ah, so it is expressing gratitude. Small wonder I did not recognize it. My former master never bothered with such courtesies. A rather refreshing change."

Given the fate that had befallen the golem's former master, courtesy would have been prudent, even if it wasn't something that had been drilled into her since she had begun to talk. She stepped through the door to the Spoiled Princess as the first, fat raindrops began to splatter on the ground. The Circle would have been more than happy to accommodate them for a night or two, but the battles that had raged through the tower had left few of the sleeping quarters suitable for habitation. Irving had settled for paying for their rooms at the inn on the shore of Lake Callenhad, much to the satisfaction of the doleful proprietor.

The Princess only had four rooms, but all had evidently been vacant since the trouble at the tower had begun. Sten and Alistair had agreed to share one, and Morrigan had claimed another, making it plain that she had no intent of sharing and vanishing upstairs as soon as she had finished her dinner. The witch had not so much as looked in Talia's direction since they had emerged from the Fade, her expression looked as thunderous as the clouds building outside, and her temper was even more on edge than usual, so there had been no argument about giving her a room to herself. Leliana and Talia had agreed between themselves to give Wynne the room with the single large feather-bed (which had evidently once belonged to the establishment's dead namesake) and take the remaining room, which had two beds with straw tick mattresses.

The mage sat in a chair close to the fire, her hands cupping a goblet of mulled wine. She looked pale and tired, and well she might. She had fought beside them every step of the way through the tower, and her healing magics were likely the only reason that they had all made it out alive. Talia had been surprised when she had declared her intention of accompanying them afterward, and she couldn't help but worry.

"How are you doing?" she asked, settling into a chair across from Wynne.

"Glad to have nothing trying to kill us," the mage replied with her gentle smile. "And definitely glad to be sleeping indoors tonight. I was a bit too busy to listen, but these old bones have been predicting this storm for the last two days."

"We won't always have an inn to stay in, you know," Talia told her, trying to decide the best way to ease into it. "Most nights we don't, in fact."

"I've spent enough time on the road to know that all too well, though I appreciate the warning," Wynne replied with a little laugh, then stopped, her blue eyes watching the warrior knowingly. "Or were you trying to work your way around to another point?"

"Maybe," Talia admitted, dropping her eyes. "You don't have to come with us, Wynne. The Circle could use your help in rebuilding, and we're going to need them as strong as possible when the time comes to face the Blight."

"And you're afraid I'm going to drop dead along the way?" The mage sounded more amused than offended, and when Talia looked up, her eyes had the faintest twinkle in them. "I survived Ostagar, young lady, and Uldred's uprising, as well. These old bones may get a bit chatty when the weather changes, but there's still some life in them yet. Besides," the twinkle faded, and something harder took its place, "I left too many colleagues behind at Ostagar; you and Alistair aren't the only ones who have a bone to pick with Loghain Mac Tir."

"All right," Talia agreed, feeling a guilty sort of relief. The elderly mage's experience and calm assurance would be a welcome presence amidst the chaos that they so often faced. "But promise me that you'll speak out if it does start wearing on you more?"

"I'll speak up," Wynne assured her. "I'll admit that I've got my pride, but the task you're on is of too great importance to risk for such things. But speaking of that, how are _you_ doing?"

"Me?" Talia shrugged easily. "I'm fine." The mage's gaze was steady on her, and she shifted uncomfortably. "A little tired, maybe, and my head still feels a little funny, but Irving said that should pass with a night's sleep."

Wynne nodded. "It's unusual to spend so much time in the Fade, and even more so for one who is not a mage to be able to tap into its secrets as you did. I suspect that, were it not for the urgency of your mission, Irving would have tried to convince you to stay for a time so that he could try to determine how you managed it."

"I don't know, myself," Talia replied honestly. "It didn't seem so remarkable at the time. I just…did it. I needed to get out of there, needed to find the rest of you, so I did what I had to. It…feels like a dream now. Most of it, anyway." She dropped her eyes again.

"You didn't ask to be shown our dreams," Wynne told her gently, "and if you hadn't been there, it is possible that some of us might have remained trapped there until our bodies died, like Niall."

"It just seems so…personal," Talia murmured, glancing to where Alistair and Leliana sat together, talking quietly. Neither of them had seemed angry with her for the intrusion into their dreams, but she could see something - uneasiness, perhaps - when they looked at her now, and Morrigan - she should never have made that stupid comment, even if it was true. A person's dreams were their own, to be shared if they chose, and she felt like a voyeur, a thief. "Can I ask you something?"

"You're wondering why the dream that the demon used to ensnare me was so tragic?"

Talia looked at Wynne in surprise. "Yes," she admitted. "My dream, and those of the others…they were about things that we wanted. I don't understand why something so sad would hold you."

"Duty," Wynne replied with a sad smile. "The young are captivated by thoughts of what might be, but as you get older, what might be becomes what might have been, and dwelling upon that is worse than useless. It devalues the things that you have done. When you are my age, duty has a far stronger pull than any transient hope of something better just out of reach."

"Is there anything that would make you happy?" The memory of the woman, surrounded by the bodies of slain apprentices, determined to see them properly buried, was one of the most troubling images from Talia's time in the Fade.

"To see this Blight ended," the mage replied promptly, her blue eyes hardening as she added, "and to see Loghain brought to justice for his betrayal."

Talia nodded slowly. "I plan on seeing both of those done." She glanced over her shoulder at Sten, who sat alone at a table, running a whetstone along the edge of his sword. "If I saw something in the Fade," she began hesitantly, turning back to Wynne, "something that might be important, should I pretend I didn't notice, or mention it?"

"That depends entirely on what you saw, and what your definition of 'important' is," Wynne told her. "Is it something that could mean life or death?"

"It could be," Talia said, thinking of the slaughtered farmers, "but I'm not sure. It's just a feeling that I have, but I don't want to say the wrong thing. I already did that with Morrigan, I think."

"The Fade has a way of sharpening certain perceptions," the mage said thoughtfully. "If it feels important to you, I would follow up on it. I don't think that Sten is as touchy as Morrigan."

"No, he's not," Talia agreed, standing up. "Thank you, Wynne."

"Thank you." The mage replied. Talia gave her a puzzled look, and she smiled. "Because of you, the Circle survives to be rebuilt."

"Not me alone," the warrior said softly, turning and making her way among the tables to where Sten sat.

The qunari's expression reflected stoic resignation as Talia approached. "I am called 'the Sten' for the same reason that you are called 'the Warden'," he told her as she opened her mouth to speak.

Talia blinked in confusion, then remembered the question that she had asked him in the Fade. "So it's a title, then?" She seated herself in the chair across from him, knowing better than to wait for an invitation. "What's your name?"

"My name is not important," he replied. "Sten is what I am."

"But is there more than one Sten?"

"Of course." He looked at her as if she had just asked him if the sun rose in the morning.

"How do you tell each other apart, then?"

"Why should we need to? Our duties are identical."

"But what if your Arishok wanted to speak to you specifically?"

He sighed, setting his sword aside. "Then he would send a messenger to summon me."

"But how would that messenger know to find you, instead of another Sten?"

"The Arishok would tell him where to find me."

"But how -" She broke off, decided to try a new approach. "What do your friends call you?"

"Friends?"

She bit down on her cheek. "Other qunari?"

"Sten."

"But…what if they're a Sten, too?"

"That does not change what I am."

"So…you just call each other Sten?"

"Yes."

"But don't you have a name that tells who you are? Who your family is?"

"My lineage?"

"Yes."

His eyes grew slightly unfocused, and he began to recite a string of guttural syllables that ran for more than a minute without a pause for breath.

"That whole thing is your name?"

"It is my lineage, used by the Tamassran to prevent bloodlines from breeding too closely. I suppose I could teach it to you, but it would be cumbersome to use in battle."

She regarded him suspiciously. She was almost certain that she had detected traces of a sense of humor in him from time to time, but his expression never changed. "You're probably right. Sten it is, then, but that actually wasn't what I was going to ask you about."

He sighed. "I am hardly surprised."

He never refused to respond to her questions, though what she got could not always be termed an answer. "The sword that you had in the Fade was not the same as the one that you carry now."

"No." His features hardened almost imperceptibly.

"It was special to you? The sword in your dream?"

"Yes."

"Why?" The key was asking him questions that required more than a simple 'yes' or 'no'.

The violet eyes watched her for a long moment, deciding. "It was made for me on the day that I was born," he said at last. "It is Asala. My soul."

"Where is it now?"

A faint flicker of irritation. "If I knew that, it would be in my possession."

"How did you lose it?"

"As I told you, the Beresaad were sent to Ferelden to discover the nature of the Blight for the enlightenment of the Arishok. In our search, we encountered the darkspawn in battle and were overwhelmed." His voice was flat, emotionless, but the same melancholy that she had seen in the dream shadowed his eyes. "I was knocked unconscious. When I awoke, I found that I was the only survivor. A group of farmers had found me and taken me back to their home."

"And your sword was gone?" she guessed.

"Yes. I asked them where it was, but they said that they had seen no weapons when they found me, that scavengers had picked the battlefield clean before they arrived." He dropped his eyes. "There was no reason for them to lie, but I panicked."

Talia blinked. "Panicked?" It was not a word that she could easily associate with the stoic warrior.

He lifted his head, his eyes hard. "It is Asala. My soul," he repeated. "No true qunari would lose his soul. Without it, I would be slain on sight, if I were to return to Par Vollen. That is why I cannot report back to the Arishok; I would not be permitted to complete my mission."

He went on, his expression becoming melancholy again. "When I regained control, I found that I had killed the farmers, even the children. I waited there for your soldiers to come for me, for justice."

Talia was silent for a long moment, thinking. "If you found your sword, would that fix it?" she asked. "Would you be able to go home then?"

"If I found Asala, I could return," he agreed, "but the battle took place weeks ago. Whoever took my sword is far from here by now."

"We could still look for it."

"You propose to find a single sword in a nation at war?"

"I found you in the Fade, didn't I?"

The qunari went silent. Talia waited for one minute, then another before giving up and pushing her chair away from the table.

"The place where we met the darkspawn in battle is not far from this lake," he said suddenly. "No more than an hour's walk." His expression betrayed neither hope nor disbelief.

"We'll go there tomorrow, then," she promised him, "and see if there is anything to be found."

"What was that all about?" Alistair asked in a low voice as she paused by their table.

"I told him I'd help him find his sword," Talia replied, tilting her head up to listen to the steady drum of rain on the roof. It was really coming down now, and she felt a renewed yearning to be out in it.

"He needs another one?" Alistair peered dubiously past her. The qunari had once again taken up his blade and resumed sharpening it, his movements slow and methodical.

"This was a special sword." Thunder rumbled outside, and she closed her eyes, listening.

"Talia?" She opened her eyes to find Leliana watching her worriedly. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." The words came so easily to her now that she no longer bothered wondering if they were true or not. She led, so she had to be fine, and it was as simple as that. "Definitely tired, though. I think I'll head up to bed."

The bard nodded, but Talia did not miss the look that she exchanged with Alistair. "I said I'm fine," she repeated, unable to completely suppress the irritation in her voice. "I just need some rest." Without waiting for a reply, she made her way to the stairs and up, Brego at her heels.

The room was a small one, with only a single nightstand between the two narrow beds, and a chair against the opposite wall. She lit the oil lamp, then lay claim to the bed nearest the window, drawing back the curtains so that she could see the play of lightning across the sky as she stripped out of her armor, laying each piece on the bed in front of her. Brego dropped to the floor at the foot of the bed with a contented sigh, well familiar with the nightly routine.

Pulling the chair over, she retrieved her repair kit from her pack and seated herself, going over each piece with a meticulous eye. Dirt and moisture left on plate would cause it to rust; straps left untended could snap in battle, hampering movement and exposing vulnerable spots. She wiped down the metal with a dry cloth, tested each strap for strength and oiled them until they were supple. She found one with a rivet that was coming loose, and carefully tapped it back down, using the small, flat stone and hammer from her kit. The movements were familiar, soothing, but they did not completely quell the restlessness within her.

She heard the door open and shut quietly behind her. "I thought you were going to sleep?" Leliana asked, seating herself on her own bed.

Talia shrugged. "Armor doesn't clean itself." She tested the repaired strap, found its strength to her satisfaction, and began gathering the assorted pieces together and piling them onto her breastplate, then sliding it all beneath her bed. A brief inspection of her shield revealed no problems, and she set it aside, then lay Starfang on the bed, still sheathed. She needed to clean and sharpen it, but she didn't even want to look at it right now. Back in the tower, there had been no time to think about the part that it had played in her dream, but now...

"Talia?" She jerked her head up, realized that she had been sitting in silence for…how long? Leliana was leaning against the foot of her bed, looking worried again. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yeah." She nodded, leaning the sword against the headboard. "Just…thinking."

Though the tensions between she and Leliana had largely vanished since Lothering, she still frequently found herself at a loss for how to treat the bard. There had been no girls her age at Highever, and her mother's attempts to bring in fosterlings had been almost uniformly unsuccessful. She'd gotten on well with the boys, and she and Rory Gilmore had been partners in crime since the day he had arrived. She supposed that eventually, they might have moved beyond friendship, but that was something that would never happen now.

None of that had given her any idea how to react to the Orlesian's chatter about clothes, shoes, shopping. She couldn't tell if it was honest enthusiasm or a nervous attempt to fill up silence, since Talia had never been a talkative person by nature. She listened politely, responded as well as she was able (though the notion of satin shoes with ribbons made her toes curl in horror) and wondered at the shadows that occasionally clouded the bard's blue eyes.

"Do you remember much about your mother?" she asked suddenly. She knew that the woman had been a Fereldan servant to an Orlesian noblewoman, and that she had died when Leliana was young, but little beyond that.

"A bit," the bard replied. "Sometimes it seems wrong to me that I have more memories of Lady Cecilie, but at least she was a kind mistress, and my time there was pleasant." An obscure look of pain flitted across her delicate features and was gone. "But my mother…she was always singing. To me, to Lady Cecilie, to herself as she worked. I think that is where I developed my love of music. That is what I remember best. The sound of her voice and her smell. There was a tiny white flower that she loved, which had the most exquisite fragrance: delicate and sweet. She called them Andraste's Grace, and they were very rare in Orlais. She used to sprinkle the petals on her clothes before she put them away, and the scent would linger when she wore them."

Talia nodded wordlessly, swallowing against the tightness in her throat. She'd lived among her family for seventeen years. She knew that she had good memories of those years, but whenever she tried to find them, she found her mind hemmed in by blood and screams, flames and smoke. Such thoughts no longer dominated her waking moments, but she still could not reach back past them.

"I'm sorry," she muttered. "I shouldn't have used Lothering against you in the Fade, but I didn't know how else to wake you."

"You don't have to apologize," Leliana told her earnestly. "You did what you had to do. A bit of pain was better than being trapped in that creature's illusion."

"Even if you were happy there?" Talia asked, turning to meet the bard's gaze.

"The happiness was a lie." The blue eyes held hers without flinching, gentle and sad. "What lie did it try to ensnare you with?"

She started to bristle, to tell Leliana that it was none of her business, but…she'd seen into the other woman's dreams without permission. That she had not intended to do so made no difference; she owed her an answer.

"Home," she said softly, then went on to tell the whole thing, from Oren leaping into her arms to her false family dying by her sword. "If it hadn't messed up and included Starfang, I might still be there." She stared at the blade, hating it more than a little. She had been happy, and if she had never known the lie, if her body had wasted away and died, as Niall had, with her none the wiser, would it have been so bad?

Thunder crashed outside, lightning danced across the sky, and she turned her head to watch the rain running down the window, feeling the sudden need to be out in the storm, to feel the rain on her face, the wind whipping around her, anything but the great yawning hole that was trying to open inside her again.

Before she realized that she intended to move, she was crawling over her bed, fingers beneath the window frame sliding it upward, ignoring Leliana's startled query, Brego's whine of protest. She toed off her boots, feeling the bard try to grab her ankle as she slithered out the window, dropping easily to the ground below.

She was drenched to the skin in seconds, but it felt good, and she turned her face skyward, meeting the downpour head on, feeling mud and grass squelching beneath her bare feet. She stared up at the swirling clouds, the dancing lightning, wanting to be even closer to them, and knowing how she would do it.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Leliana climbing out the window and felt herself grinning. _Catch me if you can._ Before the bard had hit the ground, Talia was darting around to the front of the inn, to the massive tree that had so fascinated Brego earlier that evening. The bark was rough and gnarled, offering perfect hand and footholds, even as wet as it was, and she was quickly up among the spreading branches, climbing hand over hand, higher and higher, until she could feel the branch she was on wavering beneath her weight.

The wind had whipped the lake into a froth of whitecaps, and the tower on the island was all but hidden beneath the lowering clouds. Overhead, the sky was a churning mass of purple, green and black, shot through with veins of purest white that flickered, vanished and reappeared seconds later in a different spot. She stared up at it, feeling the same wild exultation that sometimes took her in battle before the battle rage claimed her utterly: her blood racing through her veins like fire, each breath drawn into her lungs like the bellows of a forge, making the fire burn brighter, searing away memory and sorrow, everything but the feeling of being vividly, gloriously _alive_.

"Talia!" she looked down, saw Leliana climbing toward her, one hand outstretched. She reached out and took it, but instead of letting the bard draw her down, she pulled Leliana up until they were balanced on the same swaying branch, clinging to each other for support and leaning into the tree as the wind tore at them.

"Do you see it?" she shouted, pointing into the sky.

"Yes!" the bard shouted back, and when Talia looked down into the Orlesian's face, she saw the reflection of the same deadly fascination that gripped her: wonder and fear and delight so intermixed that it was impossible to separate the emotions from each other.

The lightning began in earnest now, arching from cloud to cloud and from sky to earth, accompanied by ever louder crashes of thunder that came ever more swiftly on the heels of the flashes. "We need to get down," Leliana said, her mouth close to Talia's ear to be heard over the wind and rain.

Talia nodded, though a part of her wondered if it wasn't already too late. She could feel the power building in the air, the crisp smell of ozone rising. She started to follow Leliana down, moving from branch to branch, when she felt the hair on the back of her neck rising as electricity began to gather.

They weren't going to make it.

She dropped down beside Leliana, then jumped, pushing them both as far away from the tree as she could, twisting as they landed to shield the bard as the world exploded in a blinding flash of white light and a crack that sounded as though the heavens above had split asunder. She rolled onto her back, staring up at the tree, which had been split almost in half, the heartwood blackened, but the flames already almost extinguished by the driving rain.

"That was incredible!" It took Talia several seconds to realize that Leliana was actually laughing, and a bit longer than that to recognize the same sensation bubbling up in her own chest. Lying back, she let it burst forth: not the cynical laugh that she used all too often of late, nor the hysterical laughter that was sometimes the only alternative to tears or screams, but a joyful sound of delight, high and pure and as cleansing as the rain.

Footsteps thundered down the hill from the inn, Brego's tongue warm against her cheek as he nosed her anxiously. "Are you all right?" Alistair dragged her unceremoniously to her feet, then reached down to do the same for Leliana, looking from one to the other with wide eyes. "What were you doing out here? I thought you'd gone to sleep, and then _he_ came barreling down the stairs!" He pointed at Brego, who couldn't seem to decide whether to look repentant or pleased with himself. Doorknobs were no real obstacle to a mabari's intelligence, but he'd been trained from puppyhood not to simply open closed doors at whim. The last time Talia could remember him doing it had been just before the attack at Highever, when he had let himself into the larder to get at the rats that had crept in through the tunnel.

As small as it was, the memory was of something that had taken place before the attack, however shortly before, and she paused to explore it: Nan's exasperated outrage; Brego's agitation; she, Rory and the mabari dispatching the Korcari rats; Rory's joke about bad adventure tales; her old nurse's gruff gratitude, once Talia had explained the reason for the mabari's invasion. Brego nudged her with a worried whine, and she gave his head a reassuring scratch, her touch telling him now, as it had then, that he'd done nothing wrong.

"It seemed to have a desire to see what being struck by lightning would feel like," Shale rumbled. "It climbed the tree with the Sister, but they both jumped before things got really interesting."

"You climbed a tree in a storm like this?" Alistair's eyes bulged. "Are you crazy? You could have been killed!"

"Don't be silly, Alistair." Leliana reached up to pat his cheek. "We just wanted to get a better look at the sky, that's all. It was magnificent, and we were out of danger in plenty of time." Grabbing Talia's arm, she began tugging her toward the door of the inn, the little smile on her lips promising that the truth of the matter would remain between them.

"But - but," Alistair sputtered.

"If you plan on continuing to babble, could we at least move back inside?" Sten queried, water dripping from his braids as he reached out to tap the Warden's breastplate. "Unless it is your intent to be struck by lightning?"

And that was that.

* * *

"Why didn't you tell them?" Talia fluffed her pillow and lay down. Her hair was still damp, and her wet clothes hung from a line that they had strung across the room, but her nightgown was dry, and the heated stones that the innkeeper had tucked at the foot of the bed had warmed the sheets nicely.

"Because they wouldn't have understood." Leliana rested her head on one arm, watching her from the opposite bed with that same little smile. "They don't know how it feels to need to stare death in the face to feel alive sometimes."

"Yes," Talia agreed softly. "Is that why you let me pull you up there?"

"Partly that," the bard nodded, "but mostly because you still don't always know when to step away from the line. If I hadn't been up there, would you have jumped out of that tree?"

"I don't know," Talia admitted, frowning slightly as she thought back to the moment. "I wasn't thinking about living or dying; I was just…feeling." She snorted softly. "So, are we both crazy, then, like Alistair said?"

"Perhaps." Leliana didn't seem troubled by the notion, "but given the company that we travel in, I hardly think that we will stand out overly much."

"No, I don't suppose that we do." Particularly when one considered that this motley fellowship was the one that was supposed to end the Blight. She sighed, drawing the blanket up to her chin. "Good night, Leliana."

The bard leaned toward the nightstand and extinguished the lamp, leaving the room lit by the fitful lightning of the waning storm. "Good night, Talia."

The warrior turned onto her back, staring out the window, her mind revisiting the events in the tower, thinking about the mages and templars they had been too late to save.

"I could sing for you." Leliana's voice surprised her. She had thought that the Orlesian was asleep already. "Or tell a story, if you think it would help you sleep."

"If you don't mind." Her mother had sung her to sleep when she was small, and the surfacing of yet another fragment of memory of her life before Howe's betrayal triggered a surge of wistful longing.

That gentle laugh. "That's what bards do, silly." After a moment, she began to sing softly of a clever young prince who was challenged by a witch to complete seven seemingly impossible tasks to win her beautiful daughter as his wife. Her voice, rich with emotion, wove vivid pictures with her words, but Talia was still fast asleep before the fourth task was finished.


	13. Unwilling Trust

"Might I have a word with you in private?" Morrigan kept her voice level, giving no hint of the agitation rippling just beneath her skin at the roomful of eyes that had suddenly focused upon her.

Talia nodded, following her away from the great stone fireplace in the main hall of Redcliffe Castle and into the kitchen, where an elf chopping carrots took one look at the witch's expression and scurried out.

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" she demanded of the Warden. "You've a roomful of mages to choose from out there. Why me?"

"You're the best choice," Talia replied calmly. "You're the best chance that Connor has. Irving and the other Circle mages are still too weak after what happened to them, and Wynne isn't much better."

"And what of the blood mage who is responsible for setting the entire chain of events into motion? If he is so eager to make amends, why not let him enter the Fade to battle the demon?"

"Jowan?" Talia looked at her incredulously. "Aside from the fact that he is a blood mage, he's admitted to poisoning Arl Eamon! We've only got his word that he had nothing to do with the demon." She shook her head. "I just don't trust him."

"And you trust me?" The query was meant to be coolly sarcastic, but Morrigan could hear the sharpness in her voice, because she knew what was coming.

She'd been waiting for it ever since they had left that damned tower, ever since the warrior had witnessed her weakness. No, she hadn't consciously wished for that wretched parody of Flemeth that the sloth demon had trapped her with, but she knew well enough the ways that such demons wove their webs. They could only manipulate the silken strands of their victims' wishes and desires, which meant that somewhere inside her was a yearning for the very thing that she had always expressed such disdain for. Some pitiful corner of her soul _wanted_ Flemeth to be the way that Talia had described her own mother: kind, nurturing, loving.

It was ridiculous! Talia herself was proof of how damaging such coddling could be; she'd been all but incapacitated by her grief. She was recovering, but instead of growing harder, thanks to the insipid encouragement of Alistair and the Chantry wench, she clung even more stubbornly to the teachings that had gotten her parents slaughtered in the first place. Duty, honor, love, trust...all weaknesses that all but guaranteed against survival in the end.

The Arl's son was a perfect case in point. The boy had become an abomination; killing him would have been the swiftest and surest solution, but when she had expressed the practical thought, they had all looked at her as though _she_ had been the abomination. Turning to the mage's Circle had been a viable alternative, true enough, but even had they not needed to secure the Circle's agreement to honor the ancient treaty with the Grey Wardens, Morrigan was quite certain that Talia would have taken on the task of freeing the tower from its plague of blood mages and demons, simply to ensure their aid in helping the boy...or just because it was the 'right' thing to do.

And so she had seen Morrigan's weakness in that accursed dream. Seen and recognized it. Power was the key to survival, and knowledge was among the most potent forms of power. Through her knowledge, Talia now had a power over Morrigan that none besides Flemeth had ever possessed.

Why, then, did she not _use_ it? She had said nothing of the matter since they had emerged from the Fade. There had been no veiled references, no meaningful – or even pitying - looks from the Warden. It was a ploy, it had to be, but knowing that had done nothing to keep the waiting from gnawing at her nerves in a way that was utterly intolerable. Each time the girl turned to speak to her, she braced herself, ready to lash out at the merest suggestion that she was as weak and needy as the rest of the sheep in this world. Each time, she was left bristling and baffled when the subject was not so much as hinted at. She had reached the conclusion that Talia must be holding it in reserve, intending to use it when it would gain her the most benefit, and this had to be that time.

The Warden simply shrugged. "I know you've got your own reasons for being with us," she said quietly, "just as Flemeth had her own reasons for sending you. But whatever those reasons are, they require us to succeed, and saving Eamon's son can only make him more willing to take up our cause with the rest of the nobles."

Morrigan eyed the girl with surprise. Her reasoning was sound, and unexpectedly logical, but before she could offer a suitably biting response, Talia continued slowly, as though putting pieces of a puzzle together, trying to see how they fit.

"You spoke up to free Sten, and even Jowan, though doing so didn't really gain you anything."

"It lost me nothing, either," the witch snapped defensively. "Twas a waste for them to die behind bars when they might still be of use alive." There was more to it than that, but she did not care to explore the feeling of indignation that rose in her when she saw anything caged, trapped against its will. She could conceive of no worse fate; even death would be preferable. That the Circle mages would allow themselves to be imprisoned was undoubtedly the strongest reason for the contempt that she felt for them. Admitting any of this to Talia, however, would simply give her more knowledge, more power.

"Isn't the same true for Connor?" Talia asked. "He is no less caged than they were; you saw his real face when the demon's control slipped. He's still in there."

"And if I save him, the mages will promptly pack him off to yet another cage, where he will live out his days learning to sing to their dreary tune." Damn that girl and her observant eyes! "Do not seek to manipulate me; if you would have me do this, have the courtesy to simply _ask_ me."

Talia frowned. "I thought I had."

"Then your memory is faulty," Morrigan replied acerbically, finding herself perversely irritated that the girl would not just mention the dream outright and have done with it. "As I recall, the sequence of events unfolded thusly: the First Enchanter inquired who you intended to enter the Fade and you volunteered me. I have no recall of being _asked_ to do anything."

The warrior looked surprised, then abashed. "I'm sorry, Morrigan," she murmured. "That was wrong of me. Will you do this, please?"

"And for what reason should I?" The witch cocked her head, eying Talia challengingly, daring her to say it: _Because you're soft, Morrigan. Soft and weak, wanting your own mother to be something that she could never be, wanting to be loved and coddled. Surely you wouldn't deprive a loving mother of her child?_

Talia simply shrugged. "Because I'm asking you to?" There was no guile in those dark eyes, only an earnest plea, and Morrigan felt her anger faltering, searching without success for something to feed upon.

_You don't know me!_ Morrigan wanted to scream. _Just because I travel with you and help you when it suits me does not give you any claim upon me!_ Instead, she heard herself give a long-suffering sigh. "Very well. I will try. Let us be done with it, then."

Talia nodded. "Thank you."

She shook her head. "Do not thank me until the deed is done. I said that I would try, nothing more. I will not sacrifice my own life for the child's, if it comes to that."

"I wouldn't want you to," Talia replied. "I'm thanking you for being willing to try."

"I -" She broke off. "You are - welcome."

Evidently hers had not been the only misgivings, for they returned to the great hall to find a heated discussion in progress between the mages and the templars who had accompanied them.

"Absolutely out of the question!" the one named Cullen snapped at Irving, shooting her a look comprised of equal parts fear and loathing as she approached.

"This woman is an apostate - a maleficar!"

"She is an apostate, yes, but she is no maleficar, Cullen," Wynne spoke up. "She fought with us against the blood mages and their creations to save the Circle."

"I did not do it to save the Circle, old woman," Morrigan informed her. "I assisted because the Wardens assure me that mages will be needed to combat the Blight, though if you could not stand against buffoons such as this one," she flapped a hand in Cullen's direction, "then I am not sure how you will fare against an archdemon."

"You're not helping," Talia muttered under her breath as Wynne shot her an exasperated look.

"If I am to help, it will be as nothing but what I am," Morrigan snapped. "If you wish to be perfectly accurate, an apostate is one who has fallen away. As I was never a part of either the Circle or your Chantry, I cannot have fallen away from either, and therefore cannot be termed an apostate. I do not practice blood magic, hence, I cannot be called maleficar, either."

"Your sophistry will not blind me, woman!" Cullen snarled. "I know what you are!"

The other two templars simply stood like the herd animals that they were, their bovine gazes shifting between Cullen, Irving and Morrigan.

"And we come to the crux of the matter," she said mockingly. "Tis not that I might be apostate or maleficar that agitates you so, but that I am a woman, or did you think that I have not noticed your eyes upon me? 'Tis not the fault of the fruit that it is forbidden, however, so it makes little sense to blame it." The youth was all but bursting with repressed lusts, tightly constrained by the shackles of guilt and piety that his religion had encumbered him with. Add to that the fact that his torture at the hands of the blood mages had nearly unhinged him, and Morrigan had to marvel that the Knight-Commander had let him out of the tower at all, much less made him the ranking member of the three templars who had accompanied the mages to Redcliffe. Despite his assertion that the Circle had been reclaimed, it seemed that Greagoir was taking no chances that one of his surviving charges might be a blood mage in disguise.

"Enough." Irving raised a restraining hand as Cullen's face flushed an ugly shade of red. "We could argue semantics until the Blight overruns all of Thedas, but the simple fact is that none of the mages of the Circle have regained sufficient strength to battle a demon within the Fade. It is this woman or no-one, and if it is no-one, then the child must be slain." There was a choked sob from the corner, undoubtedly from the boy's idiot mother. "Will you be the one to perform that grave duty, Ser Cullen?"

"I -" Rage faded from the templar's face as the ever reliable guilt surged to the fore. "Let it be done, then," he said through gritted teeth, "but we _will_ remain vigilant."

_As vigilant as you were when Uldred stole your Circle from under your very noses?_ So tempting to ask, but now that it had been agreed to, she was eager to get it over with. What Flemeth would say if she ever found out that her daughter had put her spirit into the hands of a group of Chantry sheep...

"We'll be right here." Talia stood beside her briefly as the five mages arranged themselves around her. "He won't do anything."

"He is possibly the least of my concerns at the moment," Morrigan replied. She was not afraid. That was not it at all, but there was no getting around the fact that she was about to put her life in the hands of those who would no doubt be just as happy to see her dead, or at the very least, as enslaved as they themselves were. It was foolish, and yet she was entrusting herself to them...because she trusted that

Talia would not allow them to harm her.

_You fool._

Lifting her chin as the Warden stepped away from her, she stared defiantly at the flames that leaped in the fireplace as the mages began the spell, their voices rising as one, and she wondered suddenly what it would have been like, to have someone to learn magic with.

_You bloody fool._

* * *

She was falling. Her head was spinning, her muscles burning with the memory of the repeated clashes with the demon in the Fade. Arms caught her, steadying her against plate armor as she was carefully eased to the ground.

"Morrigan?" Talia's voice close, sounding worried, almost frightened.

She could not find the strength to open her eyes, but she managed to mumble, "Tis done."

A rush of footsteps, a clash of steel, men shouting, a woman's scream - that idiot Isolde, no doubt, and then Talia's voice again, as cold and hard as glacial ice: "Put that sword away or I'll shove it up your ass sideways!"

"She's been consorting with the demon! She's likely an abomination now!"

"How could you say such a thing? She risked her life to save that child!" Leliana? Run through by an insane templar or defended by an insane Orlesian; now there was a dilemma, she thought bemusedly, her mind still feeling not quite connected to her body.

"We've only her word that the boy is -"

"Mama?"

"Connor!" Isolde, already starting to blubber.

She forced her eyes open a crack, peering up at Talia. "If I am going to have to listen to this drivel, would you consider letting the templar grant me a swift death instead?"

Talia laughed with relief. "She's fine. Alistair, help me get her to a room."

Would the indignities never end? Too tired to protest, she allowed the two Wardens to hoist her like a sack of potatoes and deposit her onto a bed that was far too soft for her liking.

"She must return to the tower with us." Cullen was persistent, if not terribly bright.

"Try and take her," Talia challenged with the ring of steel sliding from a scabbard, echoed from several other locations.

"First Enchanter, I order you to assist us in taking this apostate into custody!"

"I will not, Cullen." The old man's voice was weary but resolute. "She is not of the Circle, but she assists the Wardens, which is hardly the behavior of a maleficar. We have Jowan to deal with, and his crimes are undeniable. You will have to content yourself with that."

"Greagoir will hear of this, old man!" Evidently, none of the other mages were choosing to aid the templars, which would put them at a distinct disadvantage, as far as numbers went.

"The Knight-Commander will indeed hear of it, Ser Cullen," Irving replied calmly. "And when he hears it from you, it will be for the second time."

A cool hand on her brow, Wynne's voice murmuring, and strength crept back into her limbs as her mind tilted back to its proper axis. She opened her eyes, watching the templars file out of the room. The First Enchanter moved to follow them, paused and turned to give her a grave nod before he too was gone. Talia trailed behind them, her expression still steely.

"You did a good thing today."

She rolled her eyes up at the older woman. "Is that supposed to make me feel warm and fuzzy inside? I did it for my own reasons, none of which has anything to do with being 'good'."

"Perhaps not," Wynne replied with a faint smile, "but that does not change the result."

"Find another place to gloat, then," Morrigan grumbled, letting her eyes drift closed as the Circle mage moved away.

"I don't trust that one," Talia muttered darkly as she re-entered the room. "Morrigan stays under guard until he's well gone from here."

"Do I get no say in the matter?" the witch demanded irritably.

"Not until you've had some rest," Talia replied without hesitation. "I need to speak with Teagan and the Arlessa. Who's taking the first shift?"

"As I do not require sleep, I will guard the swamp witch."

"Absolutely not!" She pushed herself into a sitting position, her glare shifting between Talia and Shale. "That thing is as infernally inquisitive as you, but without your manners! You expect me to sleep with it standing over me asking questions?"

"No." Talia turned to the golem. "Shale, stand watch in the hall outside the room."

"Good." Morrigan let herself sag back to the bed.

"Brego will stay in here."

_What?_ "This room has no windows!" she exclaimed in exasperation. "Do you think the templar will slide down the chimney?"

"I think the templar has five mages that he could manage to convince or coerce," Talia answered, her dark eyes serious. "And I think that they could likely get into this room with no one outside the wiser. You can pick Brego or Shale, but you're not getting left alone until I see Cullen well away from Redcliffe."

She'd been around Talia long enough to know when it was useless to argue. "Have it your way," she sighed, glowering at the mabari. "At least it will not talk my ear off."

She shut her eyes once more as the door swung shut. She was tired, and annoying as it might be, the knowledge that others stood watch would allow her to sleep more deeply than she might have otherwise. Nothing so silly as trust, mind you; simply the knowledge that they would not shirk their duties.

Trust was for fools, after all.

* * *

"So it's Denerim next, then?" Alistair asked as he, Talia and Leliana walked along the parapet atop Redcliffe Castle.

"So it seems." Talia leaned upon the battlements, staring toward the east, where the first stars were becoming visible in the encroaching twilight. "This Brother Genitivi that the Arl sponsored lived there; maybe we can find something in his home that the knights missed."

"Loghain's likely there, as well, you know."

She gave Alistair a mirthless smile. "Oh, I know. He and Howe both, if Bodahn's rumors are to be believed." She saw in her friend's face the same mix of emotions that beset her: apprehension at walking into the lion's den and a hungry anticipation at being so damn close…

"You can both stop thinking what you're thinking." Leliana stepped between them with an admonishing look. "If we must go to Denerim, we will be as cautious as mice sipping milk from a cat's bowl. There is too much at stake for you to risk it all for vengeance."

"You never let us have any fun," Alistair groused in an exaggerated whine.

"Yes, I am unspeakably cruel that way," the Orlesian replied with a faint smile, though her eyes were grave.

"Can't we at least dream?" Talia asked, only half jokingly. The thought of Howe's expression as Starfang cleaved through his neck was such a pleasant one.

"Not of such dark things." The smile faded, and the bard's face turned earnest. "If you must dream, dream of the Blight defeated, Ferelden united, the Grey Wardens restored to their glory."

"And puppies?" Alistair put in hopefully. "Cute puppies, mind you. Not that appetite on four legs that we've got now."

"And kittens," Talia added, letting the increasingly familiar banter push some of the weight of the day from her shoulders. "Got to have kittens. And cookies."

She wasn't certain exactly when in the preceding days Leliana had picked up her uncanny knack for positioning herself so that she could cuff both Wardens on the head at once, but her aim was only getting better.

"Ow!" Alistair rubbed his ear. "And here we were trying to be good!"

"You were making fun of me," Leliana corrected him. "Two Grey Wardens against one helpless Chantry girl!"

"Even odds, I'd say," Talia remarked, cocking her head as a flare of light below signaled the opening of the front door of the castle.

"More than even," Alistair agreed. "Though mind you, she's still no match for the Revered Mother at the Chantry where I was raised. I swear, that woman could wield guilt like -" He broke off, the whimsical smile on his face fading as he followed Talia's gaze. "Oh, they're not staying the night? What a shame. We were just getting to be so friendly."

"The Arlessa offered, but Irving wanted to get them on the road tonight," Talia said. The First Enchanter had not said why, nor had he needed to, and Isolde had not pressed her offer of hospitality.

"I'll try to contain my disappointment while I'm sleeping soundly tonight," he replied as the templars and mages made their way to the portcullis and disappeared from view. "I doubt those mages will be sleeping much until they're back at the Tower. I don't envy Irving, traveling with Cullen _and_ a blood mage. Wait...they're short one."

"They left a templar behind to keep an eye on Connor," Talia replied. Neither Irving nor Cullen had wanted to risk having the still fragile boy traveling in the company of a known blood mage, so Isolde would be allowed to keep her son...for a bit longer, anyway.

"I'm glad they're gone." Leliana stared at the shadowy mouth of the tunnel beyond the portcullis. "I know I should feel more pity for him after what he was put through, but he is dangerous. Morrigan was right about him, you know. He looked at her the same way in the Tower...as though he couldn't decide whether to kill her or..." She paused, clearly searching for a delicate phrasing of the alternative.

"Ask her to lick his lamppost?" Talia suggested with a sly sideways glance at Alistair, whose face reliably flamed up as red as the western sky.

"I'm never going to live that down, am I?" he asked plaintively.

"Not as long as we can get such adorable blushes from you," the bard teased, the pensive look fading from her face.

"Now who's being ganged up on?" he demanded with a martyred expression.

"Turnabout is fair play, is it not?" Leliana inquired innocently.

"Well, yes...but why me? Why not Talia?"

"She doesn't blush as easily as you do." Talia had to smile at that. _Nobody_ blushed as easily as Alistair.

"Fine." He threw up his hands in surrender. "Abuse me at will."

Talia gave Leliana a puzzled glance. "I thought we did that already?"

The gleam in the bard's eyes turned mischievous. "If he can't tell, we must not be doing a very good job of it. We need more practice, no?"

"Right." Alistair took a step backward, toward the stairs. "This is where I remember a pressing engagement elsewhere, I think."


	14. Day of Rest

"What are you _doing_?" The bard's words, while not quite a shriek, were nonetheless loud enough to turn the head of everyone in camp and make Talia pause in the act of raising her dagger to the fistful of hair that she had gripped in her free hand.

"Cutting my hair," the Warden replied, giving her a 'what does it look like I'm doing?' look.

"With a knife?" There were times when Leliana could wholeheartedly agree with the typical Orlesian sneer about the barbarity of Ferelden.

"Well, the sword was a little big for the job," Talia quipped, though she had begun to look a bit sheepish, the Teyrn's daughter reasserting herself briefly over the Warden.

"A jester and a Warden? Will wonders never cease?" Leliana pointed to a grouping of small boulders a short way out of camp. "Put the knife away and come with me."

"Someone's in trouble," Alistair announced in a low singsong. Talia shot him a glare as she returned the dagger to its sheath and rose from where she was seated beside the fire.

"I've got to cut it, Leliana," Talia reasoned as she followed. "It's getting too long to wear my helmet over. It gets tangled in my armor." Freed from the thin strip of leather that she kept it tied back with, her dark hair fell well past her shoulders in an unruly tumble that she exacerbated by dragging her fingers through it in an impatient motion.

"What if I can show you a way to wear it so that you don't have to cut it?" the bard challenged her as she settled on one of the lower stones and began rummaging in the pouch at her hip.

The warrior eyed her dubiously. "It doesn't involve birds, does it?"

Leliana had to laugh. Talia had been alternately incredulous and scornful at some of her tales of the more outrageous Orlesian fashions. "No, silly. It's a simple braid, but it will keep all your hair together and out of the way, and it will look pretty." The warrior was visibly unimpressed with the latter, and Leliana sighed. "If you don't like it, I'll cut your hair for you...with scissors." She waved the small pair of shears, then lay them aside and pointed at the ground in front of her. "Now sit."

Talia seemed a bit taken aback at the unequivocal order, but settled cross-legged in the spot that Leliana had indicated, her expression all but daring Alistair to offer further comment. He gave her an innocent grin and went back to repairing his armor, tapping out a sizable dent in the front of the breast-piece.

"I should be doing that, too," Talia muttered, glancing toward her own tent and actually starting to lean forward.

"It will keep," Leliana told her in exasperation, putting a hand on her shoulder and pushing her back down. "We've got all day, remember?"

They had stumbled to a halt the previous evening, almost too exhausted to bother to set up their tents after being caught in no fewer than three pitched battles over the course of the day: two against darkspawn and one against a nest of giant spiders that they had stumbled over just north of the Brecelian forest. After a bit of discussion with Alistair and Leliana, Talia had reluctantly agreed that a day of rest was in order. They had been traveling for a solid week since leaving Redcliffe, and were only a couple of days away from Denerim. With no way of knowing what they might encounter once they stepped through its gates, it seemed prudent to allow everyone time to recover from some of the rigors of their journey.

"I remember," Talia grumbled. The girl hated to be idle; she was already starting to fidget. "How long will this take?"

"As long as it takes," Leliana informed her, picking up her comb. "Be still."

Talia sighed and settled back. "Do you think we should set a watch?" she asked suddenly, sitting up and turning to glance at the bard questioningly.

"I think you should sit still before I am forced to tie you up," she warned the warrior.

"Promises, promises?" There was the faintest gleam of mischief in the dark eyes and the hint of an impudent grin at the corners of her mouth.

"Maker's breath!" She caught Talia's head in her hands and faced her firmly forward. "Your dog would be easier to groom!" Secretly, she was pleased to catch more frequent glimpses of mirth from the usually serious Warden, and even more pleased when she was the one to accomplish it. The younger woman's smiles might be rare, but they were never forced or false, and the bard always felt that she had done something worthwhile when she earned one.

She used her fingers to smooth the tangled locks away from Talia's face, then began to draw the comb through them, careful not to tug too sharply. She could well remember what a luxurious sensation it had been to have someone skilled and gentle tending to her hair; lazy afternoons spent with friends, helping each other prepare for a ball or banquet that night, idle gossip, laughter and music filling the air.

She was gratified to see that she had not lost her touch. Talia soon stilled under her ministrations, the tension that kept her perpetually in motion in her waking hours ebbed away, and she sank back until she was leaning against the stone, her head tipping forward slightly and her breathing slowing.

Was she actually asleep? That might well qualify as a minor miracle, though the day seemed to have been sent by the Maker to encourage just such restfulness. The sky was cloudless and blue, the sun just clearing the treetops promising a warm spring day, with just enough of a breeze to discourage insects. The rest of the group had finished breakfast and each set about making their own use of the down time.

Wynne had returned to her tent, still clearly wearied by the exertions of the previous day. Sten sat across the fire from Alistair, also repairing damage done to his armor in the previous day's combat. Morrigan stayed apart in her own camp-away-from-camp, her nose buried in the grimoire that Talia had discovered in the Circle tower. Shale had wandered down to the riverside and out into the swiftly flowing current, seeming oblivious to the ice cold snowmelt that rolled down from the mountains. She wondered if he found the temperature pleasant, or if it was the sensation of the rushing water that was the draw...or perhaps a combination of both? He'd been in there for nearly an hour now, and showed no inclination to move.

Leliana's attention turned as the newest member of their group emerged from his tent, tipping his face up appreciatively into the slant of the sun. Undoubtedly, it was even now much cooler here than it was in Antiva, but he was bare chested, clad only in a pair of leather breeches. Brego's head came up, eyes tracking the elf as he strode to a large, flat boulder and stretched himself out upon it like a basking lizard.

Talia's posture had shifted subtly, her head cocking ever so slightly to watch Zevran, and Leliana knew that her eyes likely held the same, coldly evaluating look that the mabari was giving him. They were both still making up their minds

The ambush had taken place only three days earlier. Brutal practicality had led Talia to keep the leader of the assassins alive, though the information that he had provided was nothing that any of them might not have guessed. Loghain Mac Tir was eager enough to ensure the deaths of the remaining Grey Wardens that he had secured the services of the legendary Antivan Crows. Once she was certain that she had gotten all the information that he had to offer, Talia was quite prepared to kill him, but something about the elf's candor had struck a chord within Leliana, and she found herself facing down a very angry Warden.

* * *

"He tried to kill us!" Talia shouted at her, eyes blazing. The others stood well clear, watching. Alistair was scowling, clearly in agreement with Talia. Morrigan wore that look of lazy interest that meant that she was taking careful note of everything said and done, weighing it for future advantage. Sten's face could have been carved from stone, and Shale, since he _was_ carved from stone, was even more inscrutable. Wynne's expression was grave; neither killing in cold blood nor welcoming an assassin into their midst was a step to be taken lightly, and Leliana honestly did not know what counsel the mage might give, if asked. Brego's head swiveled between his mistress and his target, a low snarl rumbling in his chest, daring the assassin to try to run. Zevran ignored them all, his seawater-green eyes fixed calmly on Talia, waiting without any evident fear. His life had not been his own since the Crows had bought him as a child. "What's to keep him from finishing the job the minute our guard is down?"

"Because it would gain him nothing. He is telling the truth, Talia." Leliana knew that she was walking a fine line. Talia was willing to let her past and its sins go, to trust that she had turned her back on her old life, but knowledge did not simply go away because you bid it to. The things that she had learned in Orlais could be employed to further a noble cause, the Maker's work, and she would not back away from that fact. "Organizations such as the Crows have no use for failure. His life is forfeit; he has nothing to gain by killing you now, and much to lose by removing himself from your protection."

"He's an assassin." Talia snapped.

"He is a tool," Leliana countered, forcing herself to remain calm and reasonable in the face of Talia's heated response. "A weapon that was wielded against you by Loghain, but that is his no longer. You can use him now: his skills, his knowledge, particularly if Loghain employs the Crows for further attempts. He is acquainted with their methods and can help you counter them. Would you throw away a good sword simply because your enemy once held it?"

"He's a man, not a sword," the Warden growled. "He can choose to kill or not to kill."

" _I_ chose to kill," the bard replied softly. "I had that choice. He did not. I heard much of the Crows in Orlais, and what he has said matches it. They buy children and raise them to know nothing but what they are taught. Those who learn and obey survive; those who do not are killed. That is likely the only choice he has ever had until now."

The rage in the dark eyes cooled as she spoke, but Talia remained unconvinced. "Why?" A single word, but Leliana knew what she was asking.

"Because I believe that he can be of service to us," she said, her gaze never wavering from that of her friend. It was not the Chantry sister who spoke now, but the Orlesian spy. There would be no talk of atonement for a man who seemed to desire none, only simple practicality. "If I believed that he remained a threat to you, I would kill him myself."

Talia nodded slowly, turning back to Zevran. "You get to live for now," she informed him flatly. "Give me any cause to doubt you - any at all - and that will change. Do you understand?"

"Quite clearly." The elf pushed himself to his feet with an affable smile. "Though I can think of worse fates than being killed by such beauty."

There was no hint of an answering smile on Talia's face. "You're not thinking, then."

* * *

Leliana's doubts had, of course, set in before they had traveled their first league, but the Antivan had given her no cause since to rescind her advice, though she had watched him closely. Cheerful and glib, he seemed to be utterly without fear, facing down darkspawn and bandits with the same aplomb that he displayed when faced with Alistair's abortive attempt at cooking supper. He was pleasant enough company, if one ignored the repeated attempts to talk his way into her tent at night, and his ready supply of amusing tales and quips livened up camp in the evening -

"You know, we're not going to have this much time every morning," Talia remarked, though she did not move, and Leliana realized that she had long since eliminated all the tangles and had simply been drawing the comb through her friend's hair.

"I know," she admitted. "I was woolgathering, enjoying the day, and your hair is quite lovely to work with." As black as night and startlingly fine, it flowed through her fingers like fine velvet. "You should let it grow out more."

"It used to be a lot longer," Talia told her. "Most of the way down my back. I cut it off short when I was twelve, right after Father let me start wearing armor and practicing my sword work with the militia. It was getting in my way. I'd never done it before, though, and I wound up cutting it almost as short as Fergus' by accident."

"Your mother must have been furious," Leliana replied, using comb and fingers to begin to draw the hair back where she wanted it.

"That doesn't even begin to describe it," Talia admitted. "I'd never seen her so upset. She actually cried. I'd never seen her do that before, and it made me feel so bad that I didn't argue when she told me to grow it back out. When it started getting long again, I went to talk to her, and she agreed to let me keep it just below shoulder length if I wouldn't make her chase me down for my dress fittings each year. I never saw her cry again until -" She broke off for a long moment before continuing in a voice so low that the bard could barely hear her, "until we found Oren that night."

Leliana's hands stilled. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I didn't mean to -"

"No." Talia shook her head. "It's all right. I'm starting to be able to remember things about them besides the way they died, and that's good." She craned around, looking at Leliana questioningly. "Isn't it?"

"It is," the bard assured her, fingers brushing lightly over the girl's cheek in an instinctive gesture of comfort. Talia leaned into her touch for the briefest of moments, then gave her head a little shake.

"Let's get this done."

Leliana nodded and began gathering Talia's hair again when the warrior spoke up suddenly.

"If you like long hair, why do you keep yours short?"

"I -" Her glib response about letting go of her vanity died on her lips. It was only part of the truth, and not the largest part. "I lied to you," she admitted haltingly. "About why I left Orlais."

"Oh?" Talia tipped her head back, but Leliana did not see in her expression the renewed suspicion and hostility that she had feared. Curiosity, yes, and something else…the barest hint of a smile. "So you were sent here to spy on us, then? Alistair owes me a drink."

The Warden was teasing her, and Leliana felt the anxious fluttering in her chest settle at the realization. "No, silly. I came to Ferelden - and the Chantry - to escape, because I was being hunted."

"Hunted?" Talia's eyes narrowed, the faint smile vanishing, and she shifted so that one shoulder leaned against the stone, allowing her to look directly up at the bard. "By who?"

"The Orlesian authorities." She still could scarcely believe it, even with her memories assuring her that it was most certainly true. "I was framed. Betrayed by someone that I trusted, that I thought I knew." Her hands left Talia's hair, withdrawing to her lap and curling into nervous fists. "Her name was Marjolaine." The first time in over two years that she had spoken the name aloud, her stomach churning with the memories.

"She was my mentor, my friend and -" She stopped, swallowed hard, forced herself to go on. "She taught me to use the bardic arts: how to enchant with words and song. How to carry myself as a highborn lady, or to blend in as a servant. I used what she taught me to serve her; she was my bardmaster…and I loved her." Part of her wanted to leave it at that, but she made herself add, "We were lovers." Such things were far more common in Orlais, particularly among the nobility. Fereldans were more likely to look askance at such affections, but if Talia considered it odd, she gave no sign, her attention focused on other matters, as intent as Brego on a scent trail.

"She was…your patron, then? Or a bard herself?"

"She claimed that she had retired. She married a noble, and inherited his wealth when he died." Died in his bed. His heart, Marjolaine had said, looking properly sorrowful, but for the first time, Leliana realized how easy such a death would have been to arrange. _Marjolaine, what did you do?_ "To many, she was just a rich widow, but I - I thought I knew her." Her lips curved into a bitter, mocking smile. "My devotion to her blinded me to her…less noble attributes." Devotion? She would have died for Marjolaine without thinking twice, and still the woman had thought it necessary to - "I've no one but myself to blame."

Talia's hand curled around hers, prying the clenched fingers open and interlacing them with her own. "What happened?"

She closed her eyes, clinging to the hand like a lifeline that tethered her to the present as she reached into the past that she had never wanted to revisit. "She sent me to kill a man and bring her back all that he carried. I did not know who he was. She gave me a name and a description, and I hunted him down." Had he had children? A wife? A mother to grieve over a son found dead in an alley? Such questions had never occurred to her then. She couldn't look at Talia. "I found documents on his body. Sealed documents."

"You opened them." It was not a question.

She nodded, her eyes still closed, seeing the writing on the parchment, spelling out the truth that had been the beginning of the end of her life in Orlais. "My curiosity got the better of me. Marjolaine had been selling information about Orlais to other countries. Treason. The life of a bard is precarious, but the government seldom involves itself in the intrigues between the noble houses. Plotting against Orlais itself, however…" She trailed off, shaking her head slowly. "It takes a harsh view of such activity. I knew that if she were discovered, her life would be all but forfeit, and I feared for her."

"And she betrayed you?" Talia's voice was quiet, with only the barest hint of anger showing, like the tip of a shark's fin cutting through still water.

"Oh, yes. She told me that it was all in the past, that this is why the documents had to be destroyed, and I believed her. I kept believing up until the moment they showed me the documents… altered by her hand, to make me look the traitor."

"They?"

"The Orlesian guards." Her heart was pounding, her mouth so dry that she wondered that she could still form words. "They captured me, did…terrible things to make me confess, and after some time, I did." Her eyes were open now, but she saw not the sunny meadow, the trees, the river, the grass and flowers, but the grey stone, splintered wood and rusted iron of the dungeons beneath Val Royeaux. Shadows loomed over her, cold and implacable, their voices harsh and demanding. Pain: from lashes, blades, brands…applied in precisely calibrated doses, then withdrawn, allowing a brief period of respite – perhaps even healing - to soothe the tortured flesh before being applied again…and again, until even the periods of respite were a torture for knowing what lay beyond them, and she was ready to say anything, anything they wanted if they would just take the pain away, make it stop.

"No more…" The words escaped her in a ragged whisper, and then Talia was there beside her, arms sliding around her shoulders, voice low and reassuring in her ear, drawing her back to the present. "It's all right. They're not here, they can't hurt you now. Leliana, it's all right."

Her arms went around the Warden, holding tight. _Real. This is real. This is now._ She drew a deep, shaky breath, then another, her focus trying to return to the here and now, wavering. "Don't let me go back." Her fingers bunched in the material of Talia's tunic as she felt the memories trying to sweep her back into their thrall.

"I won't." The protective embrace tightened. "We won't."

_We?_ The question was answered before she could voice it as a solid presence settled on the stone on her other side.

"Hey, I'm supposed to be the weepy one." Alistair's hand stroked her hair awkwardly, his tone worried. "You're safe here. Well...as safe as you can be when you're taking on a Blight, anyway."

She gave a shaky laugh, turning until she could see him, but making no effort to move away from Talia. Their concern was warming, and the simple physical contact was something that she had sorely missed. Orlesians were a demonstrative people, with handshakes, hugs and other casual touches exchanged freely and frequently. Fereldans were considerably more reserved, as a rule, and while there had been compassion in the Chantry, it had been of the austere variety, for the most part. Talia's embrace, Alistair's hand against her hair, were things that she had not savored in far too long, pushing back the darkness of the past.

"A Blight is easier to face than betrayal," she told him, feeling the dampness on her cheeks with some surprise. "The irony is that I would likely have taken the blame willingly, had she been close to being caught, in order to protect her."

"A devotion that she obviously didn't deserve," he said, his expression bleak as he brushed a lock of hair away from her face. "I take it they didn't just let you go?"

"No." She shook her head. "I broke free when the opportunity presented itself. The skills that Marjolaine taught me were good for that, at least."

"Did you kill her?" The anger in Talia's voice was barely contained now.

"I was in no condition to seek revenge," Leliana replied softly. "As much as I wanted to confront her, I was alone. I would have stood no chance. I would have been captured again, and there would be no escape for me; only an eternity in an unmarked grave."

"You're not alone now." Talia's tone made the statement half question, half promise, and the bard knew that a word from her would put them on a path to Orlais – if not now, then once the Blight was dealt with. A look at Alistair's face made it clear that he would follow his fellow Warden's lead. The others would likely follow, as well; Marjolaine was good, but facing this increasingly formidable fellowship would be a death sentence. The realization that she had that power was more than a little frightening, but it felt good, too.

"No, I am not," she agreed, leaning into Talia and reaching out to capture Alistair's hand in one of her own, "and that is enough for me." The friendship of this oddly matched pair was more than she had ever dared hope for when she had first stumbled into Ferelden. "Let her remain in Orlais, and in the past. The Maker guides my steps now, and He has greater plans for all of us than revenge."

"As long as He doesn't mind if we fit the revenge in along the way." She tried to make a joke of it, but Talia could not quite hide the edge in her voice.

"Howe and Loghain will answer for their crimes," Leliana told her, tipping her head up to look at her friend. "And I need to finish your hair."

"You don't have to -" Talia began, but the bard was already pushing herself upright, brushing the wetness from her cheeks with one hand and pushing the warrior with the other.

"Nonsense. I can show you how quickly it can be done now, so just sit!"

Talia complied, though the ensuing process proved to be anything but quick, as Alistair insisted upon 'helping', much to Talia's amusement and Leliana's exasperation.

"Enough! Shoo!" she exclaimed, swatting his hands away, laughing in spite of herself after a third attempt with his assistance had resulted in tufts of hair poking up in all directions from the sad looking braid. "I am trying to show her how fast this can be done."

"I'll bet I could do it faster," he pouted, but he sat back and watched as the bard's fingers moved swiftly to undo the failed attempt, combing the dark hair out and beginning again, braiding close to the scalp higher, gathering more hair with each pass as she moved down to create a neat tail that trailed between Talia's shoulders.

"There," she announced with satisfaction, using a bit of red ribbon to secure the end. "Pretty and practical!"

Talia pushed herself to her feet, reaching back with one hand to explore the upper part of the braid that hugged the curve of her head. A smile lit her face. "This is great!" Before Leliana could respond, she had darted to her tent, emerging with her helmet, which she promptly jammed onto her head. "It even pads a bit in the back! Thanks, Leliana!"

The bard groaned, dropping her head into her hands, while Alistair slid down the side of the boulder, shaking with laughter.

Talia stared at them in bafflement. "What?"

"I think that Leliana was not anticipating you finding a tactical advantage to a hairstyle," Wynne offered with a gentle smile as she emerged from her tent with a small bag in hand.

"That's a good way of putting it, Wynne," Alistair called out between hoots, earning a kick in the ribs from Leliana.

"I've been told that I have a way with words," the mage replied, turning back to Talia. "Do you remember our discussion yesterday?"

"About Brego?" The mabari's head came up at the sound of his mistress' voice speaking his name, and dropped just as quickly when he saw who she was speaking to. "Not so fast," Talia told him as he began to belly-crawl away from the fireside. "It's bathtime, my friend."

The dog whined, but rose and slunk to Talia's side, the picture of canine dejection.

"Go with her and behave yourself," she ordered him with an affectionate scratch on the burly head.

"And don't cringe like that," Wynne admonished him as she started toward the river with the dog at her heels. "I may be wrong, but I don't think a bath has ever killed anyone. Your smell, on the other hand..."

Talia slipped her helmet off and placed it back in her tent. "Did I mess it up too much?" she asked uncertainly as she approached the rocks again.

"It looks fine," Leliana assured her. "Will it work, or do I need to cut it?"

"Well..." Talia cocked her head. "You're sure you don't mind doing it every morning?" The girl would lay down her life for any of her companions in a heartbeat, but she was oddly reluctant to accept even the simplest favors from them in return.

"If I did, I wouldn't have offered, silly," the bard told her, rolling her eyes.

"You never offered to help me with my hair," Alistair pouted, feigning a wounded expression.

"Short of beheading, there _is_ no help for your hair, Alistair," Leliana informed him with a sweet smile.

"Hey!"

"What's to help?" Talia wanted to know. "It looks the same whether you just got out of bed or out of battle."

"Well, I haven't heard any complaints from my pillow or my helmet, so I guess it works."

"As long as you let your armor go without airing it out, I wouldn't be surprised if the helmet started talking to you soon," the other Warden smirked, then glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the river. "I should probably go help with the bath. His idea of behaving likely isn't the same as hers." She looked back at Leliana, concern visible in her eyes. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," the bard told her. "Go and help Wynne."

Talia nodded, but not before exchanging a glance with Alistair that the bard could read as clearly as if they had spoken aloud:

_Stay with her?_

_Don't worry; I will._

"I'm not that fragile, am I?" she asked, easing down the curve of the boulder to join Alistair on the ground.

"You? Fragile? Don't make me laugh. I, on the other hand, am highly breakable, and if our esteemed leader wants me to keep an eye on you, that is what I do." He paused and gave her an abashed grin. "Not that it's a chore or anything. You're definitely better company than any of my other options...including my armor."

She giggled. "I suppose I should be flattered."

"You should be," he agreed. "I'm fond of that armor. It's saved my hide any number of times, but it's not much for witty repartee." He paused, then continued in a conspiratorial tone, "You don't have to tell it I said that."

"My lips are sealed," she promised solemnly, then laughed again. The two Wardens were so very different, but somehow, they complimented each other perfectly, Alistair's humor leavening Talia's seriousness, his caution tempering her brashness. It was to him that her eyes turned first when she was faced with a decision. They would make such an adorable couple, but despite the bard's subtle nudgings, the affection between them remained closer to that between siblings than anything that could be remotely termed romantic.

Perhaps it was time to try again. "She's getting better, you know," she said, nodding in Talia's direction as the girl approached the trees that lay between the camp and the river. "You're helping her, I think."

"So are you," he replied. "So are the others, I suspect...some more than others," he added, with a baleful glare at Zevran, who had turned his head to watch Talia. "Worrying about all of us gives her something else to focus on. She's strong. Stronger than I'll ever be."

"You're too hard on yourself," she told him earnestly.

"Just an honest appraisal," he replied with a shrug. "I'd only known Duncan and the other Wardens for a few months, but their deaths still keep me awake at night. If I'd had what she had, and lost it?" He shook his head slowly. "I think I probably would have gone mad by now."

"I think you're wrong about that," the bard said. "Caring about people is not a weakness." She knew that some women would have faulted him for growing misty-eyed over Duncan's death, but she found it sweet. It certainly didn't impair his fighting ability, or his judgment. "Talia trusts you."

"I think that's what's known as a lack of options," he answered dryly, "or have you not taken a look at who we're traveling with lately? With the exception of Wynne, I'm not sure I'd – oh, Maker, what does he want?"

Alistair eyed Zevran with thinly veiled hostility as the elf sauntered towards them. "A lovely day," he commented as he drew near. "Though I admit, I am at a bit of a loss as to what to do. The Crows were never much for giving days off. If you were not training, you were expected to be practicing, and if you were not practicing, they could always find something in need of cleaning." His lips curved in a slow smile. "I practiced a lot."

"Good for you," Alistair drawled. "Did you want me to find something for you to clean?"

The Antivan's blonde eyebrows arched in cool amusement. "Sorry, but I have taken a vow of laziness. A bit of comradely chat seemed as good a way as any to pass the time. Besides, I could not help but note the distress of the lovely lady at your side, and thought that perhaps I could offer my own unique methods of comfort?"

Leliana felt Alistair tense in outrage and gave him a gentle nudge. His chivalry was cute, and a welcome change from what she was used to, but she was more than able to handle Zevran's good-natured lechery.

"I'm touched by your concern, but the answer is still no," she replied, "just as it was the first ten times."

"What can I say? I am an eternal optimist." If the assassin was in the least bit discouraged by yet another refusal, it didn't show. "In the meantime, until our bard succumbs to my charms, I don't suppose that you -"

"No," Alistair cut him off quickly, his face going bright red...exactly as Zevran had undoubtedly intended.

"No harm in asking, is there?" the elf observed cheerfully. "And what about our leader? Do you think that she -"

"Touch her and I'll kill you." The blush vanished, and Alistair stared up at Zevran through narrowed eyes.

_What's this?_ Leliana gave her friend a sidelong glance. Perhaps a bit of competition was what was needed to speed things along? If so, she'd have to manage things carefully; Zevran didn't seem like the type to let an opportunity slide by, and if Talia got hurt, Leliana would kill him herself.

He didn't seem overly concerned with Alistair's threat. "I have never in my life been with a woman who was anything less than willing, I assure you," he replied calmly. "Nor would I lead her on with false promises. I learned when I was younger that such things can come back to bite you, usually in very tender places. I simply thought that she might appreciate a way to work off energy that didn't involve dismemberment."

Alistair was on his feet. "I don't care what you thought," he said through clenched teeth, advancing on the elf. "If you so much as look in her direction, I'll -"

"Enough." Leliana stood quickly, moving between the pair and placing a hand on each chest. "You should know that Talia is not the type for such dalliances," she admonished Alistair. "Which is why _you_ haven't propositioned her already, yes?" she added to Zevran, giving him a pointed look. His grin was the only answer she needed. "He's needling you," she told the Templar. "So calm yourself. She's coming back."

Talia's gaze shifted quizzically between the three of them as she drew near, but both Alistair and Zevran wore looks of pleasant neutrality, and Leliana had long since mastered the art of dissemblance. "Is the bath done already?" the bard asked.

Talia shook her head. "No, but the beast is actually laying still for her. He saw how tired she was, I think. I found something I thought you'd like, though." She held out her hand.

Leliana accepted the bouquet of white flowers with a puzzled smile. "They're lovely, Talia.". They were beautiful: the blossoms tiny and fluted in a nest of fernlike leaves, but the girl had never been one for picking flowers. She looked at her friend questioningly.

Talia gave the bard one of her rare smiles, fleeting and enigmatic. "Smell them."

She raised the flowers to her nose, breathing deeply of the sweet and delicate fragrance, hearing her mother singing softly as she folded clothes and put them away. "Andraste's Grace? I haven't seen these in years!"

"Mother always called them by that name. I'd forgotten it until you mentioned them before, but they're pretty common here. They grow near water." Talia shrugged awkwardly, looking suddenly shy. "I thought you might like them."

"Very much so," Leliana said softly, staring wonderingly at the flowers for a moment longer before throwing her arms around Talia in an impulsive hug. "Thank you, my friend," she whispered.

"You're welcome." Talia returned the hug, then drew back, looking at the bard worriedly. "You're crying."

"They're good tears, I promise," Leliana told her. Smelling the flowers, she could remember her mother's face, leaning over her to kiss her good night, the scent of the flowers still clinging to her dress.

"Good." Talia still looked a bit concerned, but her attention was quickly diverted as Morrigan's voice rose from across the camp:

"Don't even think about it, you mangy, soggy beast! Get away! No...no, don't you dare! Don't you -" The words trailed off into an angry screech. "Talia! If you want this dog alive, you'll -"

"Gotta go," Talia muttered, hastening toward the waterlogged witch, who was hunched protectively over her tome with a murderous light in her eyes as the freshly shaken mabari bounded away.

"She never brings _me_ flowers," Alistair observed in an aggrieved voice, eyes dancing with amusement.

"Would you like some of these?" Leliana offered with a sigh, holding the bouquet out to him.

He shook his head. "I want my own flowers. Pretty pink ones, or lavender, maybe."

"She gave you that runestone last week," the bard reminded him. "And that cute little toy dragon the week before?"

"It was a statue," he replied defensively. "A work of art, not a toy."

"Toys versus flowers?" Zevran glanced between them with a sly gleam in his eye. "Perhaps our leader already has a dalliance in mind, eh?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Leliana replied sharply. "It was a gift of friendship, nothing more."

"Whatever you say," the Antivan smirked, "but if I may be forgiven a bit of curiosity...why are you blushing?"

"I am not blushing!"

"No? Sunburn, perhaps?"

"Don't you have anything better to do?" she demanded irritably.

"I suppose I could go sunbathe some more," he replied with a careless shrug. "Not being so fair of skin, I don't burn so easily -"

"Then go!" she ordered him, feeling her face grow even warmer.

Alistair turned his head to watch the elf leave. "She really didn't mean anything by it, you know. She likes giving gifts; she even gives them to Morrigan."

"I know." Talia was getting better at hiding her emotions from strangers, but to her companions, she remained an open book. There had been nothing in those guileless brown eyes but friendship, but thinking of it now brought a fresh flush of warmth to her cheeks.

Don't think about it, then, she ordered herself. Damn Zevran and his lecherous mind, anyway. The girl was an innocent, and the dearest friend that she'd had since she had left Orlais, and that was the way that it would stay.

It was as simple as that.


	15. Denerim

It wasn't the first time that Talia had visited Denerim; she had accompanied her family there on many occasions, but she had almost always remained cloistered in the sheltered estates of the nobility. The Couslands were close enough to the capital that there was no need to maintain a residence in the city, and Maric – and later Cailan – had always been more than willing to accommodate them in one of the spacious apartments of the palace.

When she had ventured out, it had almost always been under the watchful eyes of her parents, though on a few memorable occasions, she had been able to cajole Fergus into taking her with him, and those had been the times that she had loved the best: trailing along as he and his friends strode through the market district with the cocky arrogance of young gods who accepted the deference shown to them by the commoners and guards as no less than their rightful due.

Fergus and Vaughan Urien, son of the Arl of Denerim, had been the oldest of the group, which ranged in size from six to ten, depending upon how many families were visiting Denerim. Nathaniel Howe had been the youngest, being between Fergus and Talia in years. His sister, Delilah, was a couple of years younger than Talia, but the two girls had never been close, and her brother seldom brought her along. The excursions had ended the summer of her twelfth year; Fergus and Vaughan had an argument that had nearly turned violent, and her brother had dragged her back to the castle and spent nearly an hour closeted with their father.

Talia had never been able to get anyone to tell her what the argument had been over; Fergus had married Oriana that fall, and she had known better than to even ask if she could accompany the older boys around Denerim without him, but she suspected that even if the marriage had not taken place, the situation would have been the same. Vaughan and his father had both attended the ceremony, but the tension between the younger Urien and Fergus had been thick enough to cut with a knife.

Moving through the market district now, she saw it with new eyes, everything familiar, and yet not. No one here was likely to recognize her, at least, not as the youngest child of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland. As a Grey Warden was another matter, and Alistair had convinced her to put on a nondescript tabard over the distinctive crest on her breastplate. They drew curious stares, though not as curious as they would likely have gotten had Shale accompanied them. The golem waited for them an hour's walk out of Denerim. Sten stood out almost as much, but with the merchant that the battlefield scavenger had told them of supposedly operating here, leaving him behind had been out of the question.

Her eyes swept the stalls of the market, wondering if they had truly changed so much, or if the greatest changes were within her. The gaily striped awnings and tents did not seem nearly so bright, the filth on the cobble-stoned streets seemed more pronounced, and the people themselves looked weary and worn. She'd never noticed the tension around their eyes when she was younger, never given any thought to the notion that whether or not the noblewoman browsing the available goods made a purchase might determine whether or not the merchant's family ate that night. She'd never noticed how thin the children playing in the street were, or the way the guards stood grimly outside the closed gates of the Alienage; had they been closed when she had been here last?

"You're looking thoughtful," Leliana murmured.

"It just looks so different from the way I remember it," Talia replied quietly. "It's like my whole life before Ostagar was nothing but a dream. None of it seems real any more."

"It will not always be so," the bard assured her. A hand slipped into her own, squeezing gently. "Time is the Maker's healing gift. Such things seem distant now to allow you to focus on what must be done. These times will pass, and the memories will fall back into proper perspective."

Talia nodded, wishing that she could feel as sure of that as Leliana. The pain of her loss was receding, but at times it seemed as though her memories of her family, of Highever, were receding with it, and she wasn't certain that she wanted to pay that much of a price to be free of the pain...not that it seemed as though she had any more choice in this than she had in any other area of her life these days.

She gave her head a little shake, drawing her hand away from Leliana's. "We should probably split up," she said, surveying the market once more, forcing her mind back to practical matters. "We need to restock while we're here." She glanced at her companions, weighing the options. "Alistair, you, Leliana, Wynne and Zevran see about getting supplies. I'll take Sten and Morrigan and see if we can't find this Faryn fellow."

The other Warden looked none too pleased with her last addition to his half of the party, but he nodded, knowing that she was trusting him to keep an eye on one that she did not trust. And she was sending Leliana with him. Had it been a simple matter of choice, Talia would have liked nothing better than to wander the market district with him and the bard, but Sten would not reliably follow the orders of anyone but her, and Morrigan...was Morrigan, though she had been uncharacteristically silent since they had passed through the city gates, her golden eyes inscrutable as she took in everything around her. Not the most jovial of company, perhaps, but Talia had promised Sten that she would do what she could to find his sword. At least Brego would -

She froze, looking around. "Brego?" The mabari was no longer with the group, and she felt her stomach clench. He wouldn't attack anyone unless they tried to hurt her, but she knew that most people considered the wardogs to be savage beasts. One ignorant guardsman with a crossbow - "Brego!" She pushed past Sten, eyes scanning the shifting crowd.

"He was here with us just a moment ago." Leliana tried to sound comforting, but she looked worried. "He can't have gone far -" Her face smoothed with relief as a happy bark rang out. "There he is!"

The big dog trotted toward them, tongue lolling from his mouth in a canine grin, herding a small boy in front of him with gentle but insistent nudges from his massive head, and Talia felt her throat grow suddenly tight as memory reasserted itself with painful clarity. Why couldn't they just stay comfortably in the mid-distance, where she could see them but not feel quite so acutely?

"If he thinks I'm going to cook that for him, you can tell him -"

"Shut up." Whether it was the fact that she had said it at all or the tension in her voice, Morrigan cut off her commentary and remained silent as Talia dropped to one knee.

"Hello, there," she said softly as Brego pushed the boy the remaining distance. He didn't seem frightened in the least, turning back to pat the dog's head with a child's enthusiasm, then turning his big blue eyes back to her.

"Is he your dog?" he asked in a piping voice. No more than six, surely. A bit older than -

"He is," she nodded. "His name is Brego."

"Brego," the boy repeated, then proclaimed, "He's a nice dog," to the surrounding adults.

The mabari's brown eyes were watching her, the entreaty in them plain. "I know," she said softly, reaching out to scratch his ears. "I miss him too, but we can't keep this one."

A soft whine, the blocky head cocked in appeal.

"If he comes with us, he'll have to fight darkspawn. You don't want that, do you?"

Another whine, lower this time, and the stubby tail drooped dejectedly.

"Good boy," she assured him. "You're a good dog, but you need to take him back where you found him." Reaching into the pouch at her hip, she withdrew a few silvers, pressing them into the boy's hand. "Give these to your parents," she told the child as Brego began to herd him away. She stood to watch them go, her jaw clenched.

"Oren?" Alistair's voice at her right, and she knew without looking that Leliana would be at her opposite side. This was her family now, she realized, and the thought wasn't as bitter as it once might have been. She wondered what her parents would have made of this odd band and pushed away the wistful image of Oren climbing Sten like an oak tree.

She nodded. "Brego used to herd him around Highever like that all the time."

She turned to find Morrigan watching her with an oddly discomfited expression on her face, though it vanished quickly enough when Alistair spoke up, his voice heavy with scorn:

"And of course, you have to talk about cooking him. Shall we find you a cripple to kick or a kitten to set on fire next?"

The witch's face hardened. "Is that supposed to make me wilt in remorse?" she demanded sharply.

"Enough, both of you," Talia cut in wearily before the exchange could escalate further. "Let's get this done. We'll meet at the Gnawed Noble and then see if we can find Brother Genitivi's house." From the reports they had pieced together from Isolde and the Redcliffe knights who had returned from their search for the Urn of Sacred Ashes, it seemed highly unlikely that they would find the scholar himself in Denerim, but perhaps he had left behind some clue as to his whereabouts.

Brego came loping back through the crowd, none of whom apparently recognized him as anything but another of the dogs that skulked along the streets and alleyways, despite the spiked leather collar, and she found herself shaking her head bemusedly.

"What?" Morrigan asked her as the party separated, the two groups moving in opposite directions with a parting glare between the witch and Alistair.

"Just wondering how people can be so blind," she said. "I've heard the tales that people tell about the mabari, and even though they're not true, it is hard to believe that they don't even notice one wandering right in the middle of them."

"People are sheep, Talia," the witch replied with a disdainful sniff. "And stupid sheep, at that, believing that the wolf that they do not see cannot harm them. They see what they wish to see, what makes them feel safe. Make no mistake, though; they will stampede if spooked. If the hound had knocked that child over by mistake – yes, it could indeed happen, you clumsy brute," she added in response to an indignant whine from Brego. "If the child had started crying, they would have taken notice quickly enough, and their response would have been just as mindless as their ignorance. Their stupidity is the most dangerous thing about them...just like Alistair."

"He's not that bad," Talia sighed, the words coming automatically to her lips. Weeks on the road, and she still spent as much time defending one to the other as she had when it had been just the three of them in the Korcari Wilds.

"Compared to a festering wound, perhaps," Morrigan replied with a sour face as Talia paused at a baker's stall, the smell of freshly baked pastries a welcome improvement on the stench of sweaty bodies, smoke and sewage that dominated much of the market district. "Twas not my intent to make light of the death of your brother's son," she muttered, her eyes looking anywhere but at Talia.

It was the closest thing to an apology that she had ever heard from the witch, and likely the closest that she would get. "You didn't know," she replied, accepting the bag of still warm cookies, passing a few to each of her human companions and dropping one into Brego's waiting mouth. "I shouldn't have snapped at you. I'm sorry."

"An apology is hardly necessary," Morrigan said. "If someone offends you, you are within your rights to make it known." She took a small bite of one of the cookies, her expression appraising, then gave a barely perceptible nod and took a larger bite.

_Must be pretty good then._ Talia pulled one of the shortbread cookies from the bag and sampled it. Light and crisp, sweet and buttery, it was not quite as good as Nan's, but after weeks of eating travel rations and camp cooking, it tasted wonderful. She started to reply to Morrigan's words, but broke off when she realized that she had once again lost track of a party member.

"Sten?" She turned to find the qunari standing a few paces behind them, staring at the cookie in his hand with an odd expression. "Something wrong?"

"What is this?" He held the pastry up, violet eyes intense. "It looks like bread, but...it is sweet."

_Oh, Maker._ "It's a cookie," she told him cautiously, wondering if she had just violated some precept of the Qun against sugar. "It's a dessert."

"A cookie," he repeated, testing the word. He took another bite, chewing slowly. "We have nothing like this in Seheron."

Talia exchanged a cautious glance with Morrigan, who was smirking openly. "I'll make sure you have some to take with you when you go back," she offered. "Maybe we can find a recipe or two."

"That would be good," he agreed, consuming the rest of the cookie in a single bite and catching up to them in two strides.

"A sweet tooth, Sten?" Morrigan looked him up and down boldly, the smirk still on her lips. "I would never have guessed it. What other vices lay concealed beneath that stoic facade?"

He returned her gaze without blinking. "A propensity for violence."

"I said concealed," she said dismissively. "So, if I were to drizzle myself with butter and sugar..."

"You would attract ants and flies...and little else."

"So, no cookies in Seheron," Talia stepped in before the witch could respond. The qunari endured Morrigan's flirtings with weary resolve, for the most part, but a clash between this formidable pair was not something she cared to risk, particularly not here. "Do they have cities?"

"Yes."

"Are they like this?"

"Hardly."

It had almost become a game to her, getting him to answer her questions with more than a single word. "How are they different?"

"How are they not?" He turned his head, surveying the crowded market with distant contempt. "They are orderly and clean. They do not stink." His nostrils flared. "Seheron smells of tea and incense and the sea, not unwashed bodies and refuse." His face remained stony, but there was a bleakness in his eyes.

"We'll find your sword," she told him. "You'll see Seheron again, and smell it, too."

As always, he showed neither hope nor scorn at her words. "We shall see. As yet, you have not found the one that the other thief spoke of."

"Should be this way," Talia replied, turning to study the stalls. Despite the seeming chaos, there was an underlying order to it all; the rows of merchants branched away from the central plaza, which was almost entirely composed of food vendors. Weapon and armor merchants occupied an entire row on their own, with the stalls in the coveted positions nearest the plaza taken by those who had been in Denerim the longest.

She scanned the row as they approached, evaluating each vendor in turn. That one was a dwarf, and they were looking for a man. The next sold weapons and armor that were quite plainly new, not scavenged from battlefields. Her eyes kept moving until they settled upon a shabbily dressed man at the very end of the enclave. His 'stall' consisted of a few battered crates and a wobbly stool.

"Let me do the talking," she instructed Sten in a low voice as they approached.

"Good day, my lady," the merchant greeted her. "Might you be in the market for some fine pre-owned weapons or armor? As good as new, and at a much more reasonable price than you'll find anywhere else in Denerim."

"I might be," she replied. "Are you Faryn?"

Caution flickered behind his pale blue eyes, but his smile never wavered. "I am, my lady, but you have me at a disadvantage."

_You have no idea._ "I'm more interested in what you have," she told him, deciding that bluntness was going to be the fastest route. "Specifically, a qunari sword."

"Qunari?" He tried to feign ignorance, but the faintest shift of his eyes toward Sten gave him away. "Sounds exotic, but I'm afraid that I don't carry such items."

"No?" She fixed her eyes on him, her face calm. "Sten, rip his arms off."

The warrior stepped forward, his face a stone mask. Brego loosed a rumbling growl, and Morrigan's hand settled on the small dagger at her hip.

"Wait!" he yelped, backing into one of the crates and sending the merchandise that lay on top clattering to the cobblestones. "Wait! What I meant was, I no longer carry such items! I did have one, but I sold it!"

"You lie," Sten rumbled, one huge hand settling around the merchant's throat.

"No, Sten." Talia put a restraining hand on the qunari's arm. "He can't talk if he's dead." And they couldn't fight darkspawn from a prison cell. Sten didn't remove his hand from the man's throat, but he didn't tighten his grip, either.

"Broken bones, on the other hand, have the advantage of leaving the mouth free for talking." Morrigan looked the trembling man up and down with an expression of mild interest. "Or screaming."

"I swear I'm telling the truth!" Faryn wheezed frantically. "I sold it to a dwarf in Redcliffe. His name was...Dwyn. Dwyn! I swear it!"

_Dwyn?_ Talia swore to herself, torn between elation and frustration. They'd last seen the dour mercenary only days earlier as they had departed Redcliffe Village.

"Let him go, Sten. I think he's telling the truth."

The massive hand released its hold, and Faryn staggered back, gasping for breath.

"And if you're not telling the truth, my dog has your scent," she informed him in a flat voice. "There's no place in Ferelden you can hide."

"It's the truth!" His eyes bounced frantically between the four of them, unsure who he should be the most terrified of. "I swear it, my lady!"

"For your sake, I hope so," she replied. She could hear the guffaws from the nearby merchants as she led the others away, heard more than one comment about a vulture being plucked. Evidently, his methods of acquiring his merchandise were well known and little cared for. Small wonder Bodahn didn't set up shop here.

"The one he spoke of: is that not the dwarf that you had to shame into fighting at Redcliffe?" Sten asked.

"I doubt there are two dwarves by that name in a town that size," she replied with a shrug. "I guess anything is possible though. At least we've still got a trail to follow."

"Yes."

She almost laughed at the monosyllabic reply. Not a hint of satisfaction from the qunari at finding Faryn, and she doubted she'd see any until he was actually holding his sword again. She understood in a way. Though Starfang was by far the superior blade, the Cousland sword had been difficult to put away. It lay in a chest at Soldier's Peak, carefully wrapped in layers of wool.

But if he didn't display effusive gratitude for her efforts to date, neither did he demand to know when they would return to Redcliffe Village, trusting that she would take them there in due time.

"That didn't take as long as I thought," she remarked as they stepped back into the central plaza. "We've still got a fair amount of time before we meet the others at the inn. Does anybody -"

She had absently noted the armored man as he walked toward them them, but as he was headed toward the weapons and armor merchants, he hardly qualified as an unusual sight; from the corner of her eye, she saw him slow, then stop and turn, and her hand drifted instinctively to the hilt of her sword. A moment later, she heard his voice, taut with anger but deadly quiet:

"I know you."


	16. Interesting Times

_May you live in interesting times._

Zevran knew that many nations claimed to have invented the ubiquitous proverb, but he was quite certain that its true origins lay within Antiva. As a Crow, he had traveled far and wide, but had never met a people who displayed the insatiable zest for life that he shared with his countrymen.

There were individual exceptions, to be sure, and it seemed to the elf that he had been granted the good fortune to fall in with a group that seemed to be the embodiment of that saying. Fresh off of sparing his life (an act which had surprised him greatly, though he was careful not to show it), they had made straight for the city in which the man who wished them dead reigned unchallenged. Deathwish, desperation or an admirable boldness?

If he were simply evaluating the senior of the two Grey Wardens, it would be an easy enough judgment. That one was the type to take no risks unless he had no choice, and Zevran was mightily disappointed at being grouped with him when they split up. Between Alistair and Wynne, the opportunities for trouble would be few and far between.

Mind you, the mage was nowhere near as stuffy as Alistair. She looked and acted the part of the grandmotherly type, but the Antivan had seen the steel that lay beneath when they faced the darkspawn. Duty would have brought her here, regardless of the danger.

Leliana? Ah, yes. He slowed his step to admire the gentle sway of her hips as she walked. They were two of a kind, whether she was willing to admit it or not; it was plain in the gleam in those pretty blue eyes as she surveyed the stalls, alert for any hint of danger. The risk that they were taking energized her, infusing that lithe body with a feline grace that was most pleasing to behold.

"Enjoying the view?"

He gave Wynne a cheerful grin, ignoring her reproving expression. "What's not to enjoy? The Maker went to the trouble of creating such perfection; it seems disrespectful not to acknowledge His efforts."

"I see." The mage regarded him steadily. "So it's a religious obligation?"

"We all worship in our own ways, my dear Wynne," he said expansively. "The Maker has been kind enough to provide wondrous variety in His creation."

He heard a soft giggle, looked around in time to see Leliana turning back to the dried fruits that she had been sorting through, an amused smile teasing at those full lips. Alistair, on the other hand, looked anything but amused. The poor boy could not seem to decide whether to fix his affections upon the bard or his fellow Warden (and evidently lacked the ambition to simply bed them both), and so was equally protective and possessive of each of them. Leliana, in the meantime, was herding Alistair toward Talia with almost as much subtlety as the dog had used on the boy, though it was plain to Zevran that she was drawn to the girl. And Talia remained all business, oblivious to the dance of emotions playing out around her. It was all entertaining enough that the elf had decided not to try to step in.

On the other hand, if the opportunity fell into his lap, who was he to refuse?

Perhaps he would try his luck with Morrigan, instead. He smiled faintly. The witch thought her secrets safe, but he had quickly divined one of them. Likely not the greatest one, but he was still looking forward to her expression when he mentioned it. She might threaten to fry him, or turn him into a toad, but she was far too practical to actually do so while there was still a chance that he might prove useful, and being useful was an art that Zevran had long ago mastered.

Sten and Shale were two sides of the same coin: a man of stone and stone in the shape of a man. Qunari were far too rigid to make good assassins, though he had hired more than one mercenary as muscle for a job, if subtlety was not a consideration. Sten was no different. Zev admired his control, but too much of anything was unhealthy (except perhaps sex...but just in case, Zevran was always working to increase his tolerances. Duty was a harsh mistress).

The golem was intriguing. Being made of stone would definitely be an advantage, and she (something about Shale's demeanor kept Zev from calling the golem 'him', though it was nothing he could define) certainly seemed to think her condition a superior one, but the elf thought that he could detect a trace of envy beneath the snide commentary, if not for a body of flesh then for a history. Forgetting things was a habit that was lost quickly in the Crows, at least by those who survived their apprenticeships. The idea of entire stretches of his life being lost to him was as unsettling a notion to Zev as being doomed to an eternity of celibacy. Ah, well. There but for the Maker's grace...

Talia was the wild card, the one member of the group whose reactions he could not fully anticipate, which of course, made her the most interesting. Not the safest fascination to harbor, but Zev was a patient man, more than willing to observe at a distance. He suspected that Talia herself did not know what motivated her; one day, she was the dutiful Grey Warden, the next a woman bent on revenge, and the next a wounded child. She would have killed him without hesitation, had Leliana not intervened. She still might; he could see it in her eyes when she looked at him. Not that he blamed her, of course. Very few people truly understood assassins. Professional assassins, as opposed to hired thugs. A true professional never made any job personal. He had failed, she was no longer his target, and that was that, as far as he was concerned. Staying close to her was his best chance of surviving the retribution of his former masters.

That she could be so inconsistent and still command such loyalty was no small puzzle to him. The pretty face and big brown eyes might explain Alistair and Leliana's devotion, but even the qunari followed her, when any hint of weakness should have been enough to make him either leave or attempt a coup. Shale was equally free of sentiment, yet the golem followed the Warden and obeyed her, though not always without question.

The only explanation that Zevran had been able to reach thus far was that it was due to the girl's honesty. She made no grand promises, made no pretense of being anything she was not, did not even try to hide the fact that at times, she was not even sure what she was. It was sheer genius, really, but Zevran would have preferred if the absence of guile had been a clever ploy. Manipulation he knew how to deal with, but he could not anticipate her when she could not even anticipate herself. She had told him in no uncertain terms that she would kill him with no regrets, and had spoken less than a dozen words to him since sparing his life, but she had taken the head from a hurlock that had been about to spill his intestines on the ground only the day before they had reached Denerim.

He had actually been a bit surprised when she had grouped him apart from herself; she struck him as the type who would prefer to keep an eye on him, but it made sense when she had detailed the duties of each group. Keeping a rein on the qunari as they searched for his sword would take all of her attention. Disappointing, though. Watching Talia, Sten and Morrigan interrogate a merchant would undoubtedly have been more interesting than the activities of his present company.

"How much cheese do we need, Alistair?" Wynne inquired as the Warden added a wheel of cheddar to the Tevinter farm cheese and blue-veined Nevarran sharp.

"We?" Alistair blinked, then gave the mage a sheepish grin. "Well, I - uh – just figured that since it travels so well... I mean, it takes forever to go bad, right? Aging just makes it taste better."

"Yes, but if you eat nothing else, you'll be spending a great deal of time in the bushes," Wynne informed him.

"Oh, I know that," he assured her, then coughed uncomfortably. "Just...don't ask me how I know."

"That's plenty of cheese," Leliana told him, turning him around and tucking the linen bags of dried fruit into the pack he wore. "And these apples and peaches will be welcome until the orchards ripen. We need some meat now, for when the hunting is bad; I was thinking dried beef, and perhaps a smoked ham for variety? And some dried vegetables and barley for stews, and some traveler's bread."

"Do we have enough?" Alistair asked, looking over his shoulder at her worriedly. "We still need to buy arrows and supplies for poultices and potions."

"We do," the bard replied with a nod, "but not by much; we're going to have to find a way to earn some coin. Perhaps we should visit the Chantry board?"

"As long as we're not on it," he muttered, casting a wary eye at the district guards, who seemed oblivious to their presence.

"There are options beyond the Chantry board," Zevran offered. "If one knows where to look, there are always people who need something done, and are willing to pay for it."

"We are _not_ assassins," Alistair growled at him.

"I do not speak of assassination," the elf replied. "Very few people want someone else dead, or at least, want them dead _and_ have the means to pay for it. No, the jobs that I speak of do not pay as handsomely as that, but they are not so risky, and many of them are not even illegal: delivering messages and goods, procurement of items or information, that sort of thing." His eyes flicked sideways to Wynne. "I understand there is even a consortium of mages operating outside the supervision of the Circle who are said to pay well to those capable of handling themselves with discretion." Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. Good. She belonged to the Circle, believed in it, but she knew of its weaknesses. She was practical, but there were hints of a long dormant streak of rebelliousness that had begun to stir. He suspected that she would have been most interesting to get to know thirty years ago...and quite attractive, to boot.

"We'll see," was all that Alistair would say. No great surprise there. The Antivan was quite certain that the other man would react with suspicion if he suggested that pulling up one's trousers after taking a piss was a good idea. No matter. Leliana's expression showed that she could see the worth of such opportunities, and she would be the one to convince Alistair and Talia.

A bright flash of color caught his eye, and he peered more closely at the strings of dried peppers that hung from the ceiling of the next stall: yellow and orange and red. Were they...they were! "If we have the coin, could we purchase some of those peppers?" he asked, pointing to the strings. "There is an old Antivan dish that I could prepare for you, assuming that you trust me enough to cook." The food of Ferelden was unbelievably bland; he might never see Antiva again, but perhaps he could taste her.

"That could be a nice change." The bard's blue eyes twinkled; she had tasted Antivan dishes before, evidently. "If they're not too expensive, it shouldn't be -" Her eyes widened, staring past him, her expression shifting to one of consternation. "Alistair."

Turning, Zevran quickly realized what had captured her attention: on the far side of the central plaza, Talia seemed to be on the verge of a confrontation with a tall, blonde-haired knight. They stood face to face, both bristling with hostility.

"I know him," Alistair muttered grimly. "He was at Ostagar, one of Loghain's men." He started to push his way forward, but Zevran stepped in front of him.

"Wait," the Antivan warned, speaking to Alistair, but looking at Leliana. "If we charge in, it will almost certainly be interpreted as an attack." Not to mention that shoving through the crowd would attract just the sort of attention they were trying to avoid. His eyes darted around, falling on goods stacked at the mouth of a nearby alleyway. From the barrel to the top of the crates to the gable balcony to the rooftop and over; he could be there in less than half a minute.

"He's right." Leliana's expression was worried, but she followed his gaze and nodded. She would be behind him, if it came to it, but there was no way that Alistair could hope to navigate such a climb in his armor. "We can't risk it, Alistair. We - there!" Relief washed over her features as the knight turned and stalked away, the set of his shoulders and his clenched fists proclaiming that the parting had not been a friendly one.

"She is no fool," Zevran murmured. Talia watched the man go, and even at this distance, he could see the anger in her face give way to weariness, her shoulders sagging briefly before she straightened and led Sten and Morrigan in the opposite direction, not having noticed the rest of them looking on.

"No, but she is young." Wynne wore a look of relief and approval. "Her emotions get the better of her at times. I am glad to see her acting with restraint; I have no doubt that whatever that knight had to say was not complimentary."

Zevran nodded. He had seen Talia's emotions get the better of her in more than one battle. A berserker could be a fearsome opponent, but they rarely led long lives. She was deadly, and retained enough control to tell friend from foe, but she fought without regard for her own safety, and no amount of lecturing and scolding from Wynne and Leliana, pleading from Alistair or acerbic commentary from Morrigan seemed likely to break her of the habit.

It was fascinating to watch, though; there was a definite pleasure in watching someone engage in an activity that they had been born to do, and Talia Cousland had without doubt been born to fight. A pity all that lithe grace and power were expended solely on combat, when there were so many interesting activities where they could be utilized. But if Talia did not kill him for making such a suggestion, Alistair would certainly try, and while he was confident that he could defend himself against the Warden, he was fairly certain that Leliana would cut his throat while he was doing so. There was a difference between living dangerously and asking for death.

"Let's get this done," Alistair said with a rare decisiveness. "If he's holding a grudge, he may try to ambush her later."

"Then we should definitely be around to help her dispose of the body." Alistair glared at the elf, plainly thinking that he was being flippant, when he was simply stating what he knew was the truth. Those closest to her could not see it so clearly, but Zevran Arainai, raised and trained by the Crows of Antiva, knew Death when he saw it. It was possible that Talia would not live to fulfill the promise that he saw in the flash of her dark eyes and the instinctive ease of her movement in battle, but it would not be a lone knight who brought her down.

They concluded their shopping swiftly (though Zev did manage to secure three strings of those lovely peppers) and arrived at the Gnawed Noble to find Talia deep in conversation with a pair of burly warriors that the Antivan figured to be sellswords.

She glanced up as they approached, her gaze shifting from one face to the next, coming to Zev's last and skating away with deliberate carelessness.

_Point made, my deadly beauty. I remain dispensable, and you still do not trust me._

"Doughal Fenrith and Erich Salyer of the Blackstone Irregulars," she introduced the two men to the others.

"Are you soldiers, then?" Leliana asked with a vapid smile, leaning forward to provide a better display of her cleavage. "That must be so exciting!" Talia gave her an odd look, but schooled her expression before turning back to the men.

"The Irregulars are a mercenary company, m'lady," Fenrith replied amiably, quite plainly enjoying the view. "We fought alongside the King during the Orlesian war...no offense to your countrymen, of course."

"Of course not." Leliana waved off the apology with a giggle. "Such unpleasantness is behind us now, no? The war ended at least five years ago. Or was it ten? I'm so awful with dates." She giggled again.

_Don't overdo it._ Of course, with the weapons that she had at her disposal, the bard could get away with quite a bit more than the elf would have been able to with this pair.

"Closer to thirty, m'lady," Doughal corrected her patiently, his smile indulgent.

"So long?" The blue eyes widened in surprise. "Where does the time go? Surely you two weren't involved in that? You both look so young!"

"No, m'lady," Erich replied, preening visibly under her admiring gaze. "I've been with the Blackstones for about ten years, Doughal a couple of years longer."

"How marvelous!" Leliana exclaimed. "You must both be officers, then!"

"Both lieutenants," Erich confirmed.

"The Blackstones have offered to stand with us against the Blight, Leliana." Talia spoke slowly, enunciating carefully, as though talking to a child, watching the bard's face closely. She suspected the ruse, but did not comprehend the reason. "They've also got a few jobs that they need outside help on." That they had evidently recognized her as a Grey Warden did not seem to have roused Talia's concern, but Zevran had little doubt that the significance of this – and the potential threat – had not escaped Leliana's notice.

"That's nice," the bard replied absently, still smiling at the mercenaries. "Would either of you two officers like to get a drink?"

"I'd be delighted to, m'lady," Doughal spoke up first, offering Leliana his arm.

"Lovely!" she exclaimed, slipping her arm through his and turning to Talia. "I'll be along shortly; don't leave without me?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," the warrior replied in a level voice, but Zev could see the muscles clenched in her jaw as Doughal led Leliana to the bar, shadowed closely by Erich. "What is she _doing_?" she demanded in a low voice as she led them to the table where Morrigan and Sten were already seated.

"If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say that she's trying to get a bit more information about our new allies," Alistair offered, though his expression was dubious.

"By acting like an idiot?" Talia craned her neck, staring toward the bar. "I thought you'd kept her in the sun for too long!"

"Lower your voice and do not stare," Zevran instructed her. Her head snapped around, dark eyes regarding him with a dangerous glint. "She is playing a role and doing it well, but if those two were not so besotted, they would have realized from your reactions that something was amiss. In a different situation, such a slip could mean her life."

He watched his words sink in, her ire fading, to be replaced with guilt and worry. "She could have given us some warning," Talia muttered.

"And when was there time?" Zevran inquired. "I would trust her instincts; they seem to be quite well honed."

"I do trust her." Left unspoken but clearly stated: _But I don't trust you._ "I just don't understand why she -"

"Did it not occur to you that our new allies might have some reason beyond altruism to offer their assistance? I can assure you that is the first thing that our bard thought of."

"You think they work for Loghain?" Talia's hand dropped instinctively to the hilt of her sword.

"I doubt it is anything so straightforward," he assured her before she could draw the blade, "but mercenary companies generally do not fight unless they stand to gain something. Did they ask for pay?"

"No." Talia frowned. "But the Blight -"

"Might be sufficient for them to put aside monetary concerns," he finished for her, "but I can all but guarantee that there is something that they wish to gain from this alliance." He leaned back in his chair, letting his words trail off as the barmaid set mugs before each of them. When she was well away, he continued. "I can also all but guarantee that our bard will discover what that 'something' might be."

"But why the act?"

"Young men tend to speak more freely when they are trying to impress a pretty girl," Wynne explained with a faint smile, "and if they think she's - not too bright - they tend to be even less careful of what they say."

"And what they say is only a part of the story," Zev picked up, warming to the subject. "How they say it is equally important, if not more so. Their tone, the set of their shoulders, the looks they exchange…all of these can tell you even more than their words, if you are observant."

"How so?" Talia challenged him, but he could see the gleam of interest in her eyes.

"Words may be true or false," he explained, taking a sip of his ale. "Anyone can tell a lie, but far fewer can extend the deception to every part of themselves. For instance," he nodded as a rangy man in a workman's smock walked by, "even if that man were dressed much differently, I would know that he was a tanner; the tannins that are used to treat the skins have discolored the beds of his nails, and the smell of the chemicals is quite distinctive, and not easily scrubbed out of hair and skin."

Reaching out, he took her hand and held it palm up alongside his own. "The hand of one who wields a sword has calluses that differ from one who uses daggers," he told her, tracing the ridges of toughened skin with one finger, "and both are different from the hands of a tailor. A man may say whatever he will, but it is far more difficult to change what he is."

"The elf speaks the truth," Sten spoke up unexpectedly. "What a man is is embedded in his being; he cannot escape it."

Talia nodded slowly, then realized suddenly who she was talking to and drew her hand away with a scowl, but the interest remained undimmed in her eyes. After a moment, she said, "How does an assassin know such things?"

He chuckled. "Killing is actually a very small part of the job of an assassin. An important part, mind you, but still small. An assassin's true trade is information: how to obtain it and how to use it. A man who knows that a contract has been taken out on his life will spare no efforts to keep it from being fulfilled. Finding a target and gaining access often consume much more time than the actual deed."

"It's easier if the target trusts you, isn't it?" The question was casually put, but the look in those dark eyes was anything but: as hard and sharp as an obsidian blade poised against a bare throat. It was a not-so-subtle warning to him, but there was more to it than that. Though he did not yet know the specifics, there was betrayal in her past, beyond what had taken place at Ostagar.

"Always," he agreed without hesitation. "It was a tactic that I used to good effect on more than one job." He put a faint but unmistakable emphasis on the last word.

"And if these targets had known what to look for, could they have recognized you for what you were?"

"Me?" He cocked his head, thinking and deciding against false modesty. "Possible, but not likely. A garden variety liar, though? Undoubtedly."

She weighed his words for a moment, her gaze fixed upon some point in the past before refocusing upon him. "You will teach me how," she told him.

"Certainly," he replied promptly, deciding not to point out that she had not said 'please'. The skills that she desired were intricate enough to keep him useful for quite some time, hopefully long enough for her to realize that he was no longer a danger to the Grey Wardens. "First lesson: a good way to get an honest answer is to ask an unexpected question. Alistair, do you find Leliana attractive?"

"What?" The other man had been glowering at him, and was taken completely off guard, reddening to the tips of his ears. "No! I mean, yes! I mean…what does _that_ have to do with anything?"

"Note the blushing," Zevran lectured to Talia. "It is one of the hardest responses for the average person to fully control. The ears and the neck are particularly vulnerable. Notice also the attempt to redirect the conversation; it is a commonly used tactic when someone is attempting to buy time to fabricate an answer."

"I see." Talia regarded her fellow Warden with interest...and more than a hint of amusement.

"I'm not fabricating anything!" Alistair protested indignantly. "I just don't think that's the type of question that a gentleman should ask."

"I have never claimed to be a gentleman, but the question seemed innocuous enough to me," Zevran observed. "Now, if I were to ask you if you and our bard were -"

"Were what?" Leliana dropped into the last empty chair, looking highly pleased with herself.

"Nothing," Alistair replied flatly, his eyes forbidding any commentary.

"Zevran was just showing me how to tell when someone is lying," Talia explained.

"On Alistair?" The bard looked at Zevran as though he were daft.

"We crawl before we walk, and walk before we run," the elf replied sagely. "The lesson was most instructive, trust me, but what information did you gain from your admirers?"

"Quite a bit," she announced smugly. "The Blackstones did fight with Maric against the Orlesians, but they've had problems with leadership since then, and their reputation has suffered. The new leader, Raelnor, has been in place for a few years, and is working to restore discipline. It seems that he believes that the Blight is a true one, and thinks highly of the Grey Wardens. He does not believe the lies that Loghain spreads, and feels that standing alongside the Wardens against the darkspawn is the best way to regain the reputation that they once had."

"You see?" Zevran said to Talia. "I told you that there would be something to be gained."

"Yes." Talia chewed on her lower lip, looking thoughtful. "It doesn't seem like much, though."

"Not much to you, perhaps," the elf explained, "but to a mercenary company, reputation is what brings in jobs. Knowing what someone wants is important, but you must also know how much it is worth to them. Only then can you truly judge if the proposed exchange is a good one."

"So, we get their aid against the Blight, and they improve their reputation by helping us." Talia's gaze turned to Leliana. "Does that seem reasonable to you?"

"Quite," the bard agreed, giving Zevran an odd look. "I got the impression that the leader's son and a few others are in favor of the company shifting to illegal activities. Aiding the Wardens in the present situation gives the leader a way to placate his son and their followers with a seemingly illicit alliance that still serves his own purposes."

"Assuming we don't all wind up in Fort Drakon, that is," Talia snorted, looking at the redhead with a mixture of skepticism and admiration. "And you got all that just by acting like a featherbrain?"

Leliana flashed her a smile. "And by keeping my eyes and ears open. You should try it sometime. Those eyes of yours would have young men falling all over themselves, if you learned how to use them properly."

"I'll pass," Talia replied with a dismissive shake of her head. "I don't think I could manipulate people like that."

The words were spoken off-handedly, but Zevran saw them strike home, saw the smile fade and a flicker of hurt in the bard's eyes. "But running them through is perfectly acceptable?" she demanded in a sarcastic voice.

Talia looked at her in surprise. "Only if I have to."

"Exactly," Leliana snapped. "You do what you have to do, as do I."

"I know that." Talia wore the look of one finding herself on thin ice without any notion of how she'd gotten there or where the shore lay. "Why are you getting mad at me?"

"I am not getting mad at you, I'm just -" The bard shook her head irritably. "Never mind. Let's just find this Genitivi's house."

"Morrigan, Sten and I already found it on the way here," Talia replied. "I thought maybe just a few of us should go -"

"Fine," Leliana cut her off. "I'm certain that you don't need me and my 'manipulations' along."

It was Talia's turn to look hurt, but her expression quickly hardened into one of willful stubbornness. "Morrigan, Sten, Brego, with me," she ordered curtly. "The rest of you wait here."

"That...could have gone a bit better," Alistair murmured uncertainly as the door swung shut behind them.

Leliana ignored him, twisting in her seat to face Zevran without a trace of her earlier smile. "What game are you playing, Crow?" she demanded, blue eyes narrowed in anger and suspicion.

"None whatsoever," he replied calmly. "Our leader has simply discovered that I possess knowledge that she has an interest in acquiring." Perversity made him add with an insouciant smirk, "Perhaps she will come to realize that there is much more I can teach her, yes?"

"I told you before -" Alistair half rose in his chair, but Wynne quickly put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

The mage was nowhere near Leliana, however. "Stay away from her." The daggers were not out, but the promise of them hovered unspoken.

"Such caring friends, no?" he asked Wynne with a sardonic smile, settling back in his chair. "In Antiva, the forests are home to great cats known as tigers. Magnificent creatures: coats like flame, patterned with black stripes, and large enough that one can take down a horse on its own."

"That's interesting, Zevran," Alistair told him with an unfriendly glare, "but I don't think anyone really wants a natural history lesson right now."

"Indulge me for a bit, if you will," the elf replied with a thin smile. "Antivan nobles will pay handsomely for one of these tigers, captured as a cub. They remove the claws, file down the teeth, feed their pets milk and the daintiest morsels of meat and fish, and walk them upon golden leashes, congratulating themselves on their control of such a beautiful and deadly creature."

"Hardly dangerous without teeth and claws, are they?" Alistair had not yet grasped the meaning of the tale, but Leliana's eyes showed that she was beginning to. Zev just hoped that she wouldn't gut him before he made his point.

"Nowhere near as dangerous as they are with them," he agreed, "but they still _look_ impressive, and that is what matters in such circles. If a noble house falls to its enemies, however, one of two things usually happens. If the conquerors are feeling merciful, they will release the tiger back into the forest."

"That seems like scant mercy," Wynne remarked, her eyes grave. "With no claws or teeth, how could it hunt?"

"It cannot," he confirmed, "nor would it know how to hunt, even if it had claws and teeth. It starves to death fairly quickly."

"You said that one of two things would happen." Leliana's face was troubled. "What was the other?"

"The tiger is thrown into a pit to see how long it lasts against creatures who have not been deprived of their natural weapons," he said with a shrug. "Having been taught to fight no more than it has been taught to hunt, it never lasts long, but men still place bets."

"Are you comparing Talia to a tiger with no teeth or claws?" Now it was Alistair who was looking at Zev as though he was daft. "In case you've forgotten, the only reason that you're alive is because she spared you after killing all your hired thugs."

"She can fight," Zevran confirmed, "but in other matters, she is as innocent as a cub, and you do her no favors by helping her to remain that way." He was looking directly at Leliana now.

"But I'm trying to teach her -" she began to protest.

"What? How to flirt with men...or women?" Zev cut her off mockingly. "You would have better luck teaching a falcon to pose as a peacock. Deception is not in her nature," he leaned forward suddenly until he was nose to nose with the Orlesian, his words precisely measured, "and she does not know how to recognize it in others. That was my 'game', my dear bard...or at least it was until your bout of peevishness sent her off on a task that she may or may not be equipped to handle. You want to keep her innocent; I was trying to give her tools that might keep her alive, ironic as that may sound."

"I was trying to protect her," the bard said softly, looking down at her hands. "I wanted to find out if they were hiding anything, if they were a danger..."

"And perhaps show off a bit in the process?" Zevran asked slyly.

"Enough, Zevran," Wynne reprimanded him as Leliana flushed red. "You've made your point, and - oh, dear..." Her penetrating gaze lifted, staring past the elf, and he turned to see Talia shouldering her way through the tavern, face grim and clutching a hefty tome to her chest; dog, witch and qunari followed close behind her.

"What happened?" the mage asked in her calm voice as Talia dropped back into her chair, laying the book on the table. It was leatherbound, with loose pages jammed this way and that among the bound ones.

"Negotiations did not go well," Morrigan remarked dryly.

"That is an understatement," Sten rumbled.

"Genitivi wasn't there," Talia began in a low voice, her eyes fixed on the cover of the book. "There was a man there who said he was his assistant, but when we asked him questions, he started acting strange...nervous. Like Alistair did, but worse," she added, lifting her eyes to meet Zevran's for a moment. He nodded to show that he understood, and the eyes dropped again. "I tried to push him, ask more questions, but - he attacked us."

"What happened?" Leliana's face was a mask of remorse, but Talia never looked up.

"What do you think happened?" she asked with a harsh, bitter laugh, drawing one finger along the edge of the leather-bound tome in front of her. Her hand trembled, and Zev could see traces of blood along the edges of the nail. "I ran him through."

"He was a mage of no small power," Morrigan offered as Talia fell silent, "and when we searched the house, along with this Genitivi's research, we found the corpse of the one who was likely his true assistant. I suspect that the impostor tried to lay a false trail for us; whatever the scholar has found seems to be considered worthy of protection by someone."

"We need to get out of Denerim," Talia said suddenly, a mirthless smile twisting her lips as she added, "It's been a while since I've been here, but I can't imagine the guards get any less upset about houses with two dead bodies in them." She bent and stuffed the book into her pack, then swung it to her shoulder as she stood, her eyes shadowed, but her face set. "Let's go."

She started for the door without looking back. Zevran caught Leliana's arm as the bard started to go after her. "Not now," he advised her softly. "She is right in saying that we should put distance between ourselves and this place. The time to speak to her is in camp, once she has calmed."

The Orlesian glared at him and yanked her arm away, but made no attempt to catch up to the girl. Alistair gave him an equally unfriendly look, placing a hand on Leliana's shoulder.

"He's right," he told her with a look of distaste at the admission. "She's never easy to talk to after a fight. We can -"

" _HOWE!_ "

Talia's voice was so choked with rage that it was almost unrecognizable, bringing all three of them around to see -

"Oh, Maker," Alistair groaned.

"Far from it," Zevran corrected him. The man who had just entered the Gnawed Noble, accompanied by a quartet of guards, could not by any stretch of the imagination be described as holy. The elf remembered his oily voice smoothly describing murder in such innocuous terms while his cold gray eyes spoke the truth of his intent.

Those gray eyes were wide now, the face gone slack with shock and fear as Rendon Howe found himself facing the woman whose family he had murdered: the same woman he had tried - unsuccessfully - to have assassinated.

_Interesting times, indeed._


	17. Control Revisited

Wynne had seen a tiger once, in her youth. A traveling menagerie had stopped on the shores of Lake Calenhad, and the apprentices had been granted leave to visit it, under the watchful eyes of their templar escorts. She had laughed with her friends at the antics of the monkeys, drawn back in fear as the dire wolf had thrown itself against the bars of its wheeled cage and stared in open-mouthed delight as a brightly colored parrot carried on a conversation with its trainer.

The tiger, though...it had been beautiful, but at the same time, it made her heart ache. The cage that held it had been just long enough for the great cat to take three pacing steps before wheeling and taking three steps in the opposite direction. On and on it kept moving, muscles coiled with frustrated energy beneath the thick fur, golden eyes alternately blazing a challenge at the onlookers and glazed with something that looked to Wynne very much like despair as it made yet another tiny circuit of the cage that was its world.

To a sixteen-year-old chafing at the confinement of the circle, it had been a sobering example of what true confinement looked like. She had been sorely tempted to sneak out and free the beast, but despite the rebelliousness of adolescence, she had known what fate would have befallen it. She hadn't thought of it in years, until Zevran's story had brought it back to her mind, and she had to admit that his analogy had been an apt one, particularly now.

"What do we do, Wynne?" Leliana's face was taut with distress, and Alistair hovered behind her, looking no less worried. Talia had spoken to none of them since she had come around and discovered that they were well away from Denerim. She hadn't bothered asking which one of them had been the one to knock her unconscious, just backed away with a wild look of betrayal in her eyes and begun pacing a broad path at the edge of camp: back and forth, her movements as agitated and instinctive as the tiger's had been so long ago, the berserker's rage that had sent her flying at Rendon Howe still not fully spent.

And she had kept pacing for well over an hour, her sword caught in a white-knuckled grip, not even letting Brego come near, though the mabari shadowed her steps at a distance, growling at any of the others who approached. At last, just after sunset, she had staggered to a stop and dropped to the ground, and there she stayed, as motionless as a statue, arms resting on her knees, Starfang held upright in both hands like a talisman, shoulders slumped and head bowed, forehead pressed to the flat of the blade as though in prayer. Brego had inched ever closer on his belly, low and pleading whines rising from his throat, and she had finally allowed him to stretch out beside her, though she made no move to pet him.

Wynne knew that she would see the same hollow despair in Talia's eyes that she had seen in the tiger's; she even understood the reason for it, but that did not mean that she could allow it to continue unchecked. Self-pity was not an uncommon response in children torn away from all that was familiar to them and brought to the Circle, and she'd seen it all too often. You allowed them some time to grieve, but you didn't let them wallow in it.

"I think it's time that I had a talk with her," she told them with a resolute nod. "Stay here."

"Wynne, are you sure?" Alistair wore the grim but determined look of a man prepared to throw himself onto a sword to save his comrades. "I should probably talk to her first; I'm the one who knocked her out, after all."

"You did what needed to be done," Wynne replied, shaking her head. "She was out of control, and Howe was gone. If she had turned her rage onto the market guards, it would have been disastrous, for them as well as us."

"We owe their sergeant a debt of gratitude," Leliana said somberly.

"That we do," the mage agreed. They had never learned the name of the doleful looking man, but he had held his men back – not that any of them seemed overly eager to take on the raging berserker who had just carved two of Arl Howe's guards into pieces, even if she was currently out cold on the cobblestones.

_"Get out of here quickly," he'd told them, his voice low and intense. "Howe's behind his own gates by now. I don't believe the stuff they've been spewing about the Wardens, but that won't make a lead sovereign's worth of difference once Howe tells Loghain that you're here. Put your sword to my throat and use me as a hostage, but make it look good." His lips had curled in a sneer. "I can guarantee that none of my boys will have the stones to try to stop you."_

They had taken him up on the offer, faking a brief skirmish before Zevran put one of his daggers to the sergeant's throat and led the way to the city gates, Sten carrying Talia's limp form as though she were no more than a child. They had left the road quickly, moving overland to the place where Shale waited and kept moving until Morrigan had winged in to land and shifted from the form of a raven to announce that no organized pursuit seemed to be forthcoming. After that, it had simply been a matter of making camp and waiting for Talia to awaken.

"She's like she was before," Leliana murmured, her eyes fixed on the motionless form.

"Yes," Wynne agreed. At Ostagar, Talia had been alternately raging and sunken in grief; she'd barely seemed sane, and the mage had not expected her to survive the battle. The young woman who had led the cleansing of the Circle Tower weeks later had been very different: still grieving, but infused with a new determination and purpose. The path out of sorrow was rarely a straight one, however. "She came out of it before, and she will this time, as well. It should be easier for her this time."

"Because I knocked her over the head?" Alistair tried to make a joke of his words, but his eyes betrayed his remorse.

"Because she knows now that she is not alone," Wynne corrected him with a gentle smile. "She has all of us, and the two of you, in particular." She turned her head, following their gazes. "But right now, I suspect that what she needs is an old-fashioned finger-wagging," she added, her smile becoming wry as she stepped away from the fireside into the moonlight.

Talia did not stir as she approached, but Brego lifted his head, a low growl rising from his chest.

"You can stop that now," she admonished him. "You and I both know that you won't attack me unless she orders you to, and if you do, there will be no more scraps while I'm cooking."

The growl trailed off into a whine, and the mabari cocked his massive head, his brown eyes watching her in mute appeal. So different that gaze was from the feral savagery that had been in the eyes of the dire wolf or the tiger; it wasn't the possibility of lost snacks that was behind his distress now, and she could understand his plea as clearly as if he had spoken aloud.

So many children over the years: some angry, some terrified, some half-mad with the power that had grown unchecked within them. Some she - or others - had been able to calm, to teach the control that was so vital; others - more than she wanted to think about - now dwelt within the numbers of the Tranquil. An even smaller number resided within a shadowy corner of her heart, the only memorial that the templars would permit. Many of the Circle thought them best forgotten, but she carried them with her always, a reminder of why she could not simply give up on even the most stubborn and intransigent student.

Talia was no mage, but she was not much older than some of the students who arrived at the Circle, and the events that had torn her life asunder were as dramatic and irrevocable as the sudden manifestation of magical ability, separating her just as completely from home and family. Wynne had dealt with more powerful adolescents, including one girl who had crushed her abusive father's bones to dust with only the power of her mind, but she had never been responsible for one upon which so much depended. The talent for battle flowed through Talia's veins as clearly as the talent for magic manifested itself in the children who arrived at the Circle, but like all talents that burned so brightly, if not harnessed, it threatened to blaze out of control, consuming her and all around her.

It had nearly happened today. They had been fortunate to encounter an unexpected ally in the nameless sergeant; that luck might not be with them the next time.

Giving Brego a reassuring nod, she lowered herself to the ground in front of Talia, silently giving thanks to the Maker that the steady advance of spring toward summer had warmed the evenings and given her aging bones a bit of respite. "Talia -"

"Leave me alone." The Warden never raised her eyes, and her voice was flat and cold.

"No." Wynne kept her own voice calm and level. In situations like this, children wanted to provoke an angry response, to give their own anger something to latch onto. In her own intemperate youth, she had allowed herself to be goaded; the consequences of that foolishness were among the memories held in the shadows of her heart.

But if impatience and anger was not the answer, neither was coddling. "This has gone on long enough, Talia. It has to end."

"It ends when Howe is dead."

"Rendon Howe is of secondary importance to stopping the Blight," Wynne reminded her.

"I don't give a damn about the Blight!" Talia's head came up suddenly, the wild anger back in her eyes. "I had him!" One hand reached out, curling into the air before her as if she was picturing the Arl's throat in her grasp. "He was right in front of me, and he got away!" Her voice had risen to a shout, and the mage could see the rest of the group watching openly now.

"Who hit me?" Talia's voice dropped suddenly, her eyes narrowed as she turned her gaze toward the others.

"That's not important," Wynne countered.

"The hell it's not!" the warrior snarled, coming to her feet in a heartbeat. How Wynne matched the speed of that movement was something that she would likely never know, and the distant protest of her joints told her that she'd be paying for it later, but she placed herself squarely between the furious Warden and their companions. "Who was it?" Talia demanded, glaring past her. "Sten? Alistair? I thought you were my friends!"

"We are," the mage replied, standing firm. Talia had never attacked an ally in her rage, but her anger had never been directed at them before. Uncharted territory was normally a challenge that Wynne relished, but too much was at stake here. If Talia attacked her - or any of them - the fragile ties that bound the group together would likely be torn asunder. "Do you not realize the danger that you placed all of us in?"

"If you had just let me kill Howe -" Talia began heatedly, but Wynne cut her off, her voice level but unyielding.

"Howe was gone, Talia. He fled like the coward that he is while you cut down his guards. He was back behind his gates by the time you made it out of the tavern. You could never have gotten to him there, and you were out of control, ready to take on the market guards. If we hadn't stopped you, if their commanding officer hadn't been a Grey Warden sympathizer, we would all be in Fort Drakon right now, or worse."

She could see her words hit home, see the fury wavering, seeking purchase and finding none, and at last the sword lowered. The anger was still burning in the dark eyes, but it was tempered by a weary bafflement.

"I...don't remember," Talia muttered, her gaze dropping to the ground. "I remember seeing his face in that doorway, seeing him afraid. Afraid of me." She lifted her head, the gleam of satisfaction visible in her eyes for a moment before it faded, taking the anger with it. "Then...nothing." She turned away, took a few halting steps, the tip of her sword trailing through the grass behind her, then sat down heavily. "You should have just left me."

"We need you," Wynne told her, lowering herself to the grass once again, hoping she could stay there for a while this time. "Ferelden needs you."

"You mean Ferelden needs the Grey Wardens." Talia's voice was low and bitter.

"Yes." There was no point in trying to gloss over what they both knew. "And your duty as a Grey Warden must come before revenge."

"Easy for you to say." The warrior's gaze challenged her. "You've spent your life in the Circle. You have no idea how it feels to lose your whole damn family."

"Do you think that the mages and apprentices who were killed in the Tower meant nothing to me?" Wynne allowed an edge to enter her voice now. "They were my colleagues, my students, my friends."

"And you got your revenge," Talia shot back, her voice heavy with resentment.

"Killing Uldred was not about revenge," Wynne sighed. "It was about saving what remained of the Circle." Talia would never believe that there had been no satisfaction in seeing the abomination that Uldred had become finally fall: only a weary regret at the waste of so many lives. She hesitated, weighing her next words. "I had a son."

Talia blinked, confused by the sudden shift. "A son?" she repeated slowly. "Before you came to the Circle, you mean?"

"I was nine when I was brought to the Circle," Wynne replied with a gentle smile, "so no. I was a bit older than you are now, and not as careful as I should have been. You do know that there are herbs that you can take to prevent pregnancy, don't you?" That was normally something that a girl's mother would share with her, but the nobility could be fussy about such things, as though not mentioning them would prevent them from occurring.

Talia gave her an odd look. "Of course." She frowned. "You said that you 'had' a son," she went on. "What happened to him?"

"I don't know," Wynne replied honestly, feeling her smile grow a bit wistful. "Any child born to a Circle mage belongs to the Chantry. He was taken from me as soon as he was born, and I was never permitted to even ask about him." She'd never told any of her students of this part of her life; being separated from their families was difficult enough without being informed that they would never be permitted to start a family of their own. It was an aspect of Circle life that they would discover on their own soon enough, but she did take care to ensure that all girls old enough to bleed knew of the herbs that could be gotten from the infirmary.

Telling Talia had been a calculated act, but there was a surprising amount of relief in the admission, too. The Warden's expression had softened, as Wynne had known it would. Talia cared; it was at once her greatest strength and greatest weakness, for she had not yet learned to temper that caring with caution.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, reaching out to squeeze the mage's hand lightly. "If you wanted to try to find him, we could -"

"No," Wynne said quickly. She'd known that such an offer would be forthcoming, as honest as it was impulsive. "It was long ago. He's grown now, with a life of his own to live, and I have duties that cannot be abandoned."

Talia swallowed and nodded, a flush darkening her cheeks as she looked away. "I know. The Blight is the most important thing. It just feels like I've abandoned my family sometimes."

"And what would they tell you to do, if they could speak to you now?"

The dark eyes cut back to her, a lopsided smile touching Talia's lips as she replied, "To stop feeling sorry for myself and do my duty."

Wynne smiled. "Yes, that fits with what I have heard of them. Tell me, Talia: what does being a Grey Warden mean to you?"

The girl looked puzzled by the question. "Killing darkspawn, I guess," she offered at last, shrugging awkwardly. "Killing the archdemon."

"Yes, that is part of it," Wynne agreed, "but there is more to being a Grey Warden than killing darkspawn or saving the world from the Blight."

"More?" Talia's expression shifted to a mixture of apprehension and curiosity.

"The 'more' is in the 'why', not the 'what'," the mage assured her, knowing what was likely going through her mind. The burden that had been laid upon she and Alistair was a crushing one for such young shoulders, and the notion that still more might be expected would seem overwhelming. "Ultimately, being a Grey Warden is about serving others: serving all people, whether elves or dwarves or men."

Talia frowned, turning the words over in her mind. "Serving? But the Grey Wardens bow to no one. Do we serve by protecting them, you mean?"

"That is the greatest part of the service, yes," Wynne nodded. "As a Grey Warden, you protect all, from king to commoner, because their continued existence is more important than you are. Because of the sacrifices that Grey Wardens give in their service, they are accorded a great deal of respect and power: power that must be used wisely."

"Power?" Talia uttered a short bark of cynical laughter. "I have no power. I'm hiding in the middle of nowhere because Loghain and Howe want me dead. I can't even get justice for my family and my people."

_My people._ The people of Highever. Bryce and Eleanor Cousland had taught her well; already, she was closer than she knew to being what she needed to be. "No power?" Wynne cocked her head. "You convinced Greagoir to withhold the Rite of Annulment, and risked your own life to cleanse the Tower. The Circle exists today because of you. Is that not power?"

Talia waved her off, looking embarrassed. "I couldn't just let them die, could I? And the only reason Greagoir listened to me was because -"

"Because you are a Grey Warden," Wynne finished for her. "But your choice to aid the Circle was your own, and because of who you are. Another person - even another Grey Warden - might well have agreed that the Rite of Annulment was the safest option, and with the Circle gone, you would have gained the services of the templars in the war against the Blight. Just as another Grey Warden might have chosen to kill Connor as an abomination; Bann Teagan would have acceded, if that had been your decision, you know. Being a Grey Warden - and being a Cousland - gives you power, but you are the one who decides how to use it."

"I don't want power," Talia murmured. "I never wanted it. Fergus was - he was always going to be my father's heir. All I ever wanted to do was fight. It's all that I know how to do."

"I can assure you that is far from the truth," the mage replied. They were drawing close to the point that she needed to drive home; her words would have to be chosen carefully. "Those who follow you do not do so because of your skill with a sword. The power that you hold over them - over us - is possibly the most profound, as is your responsibility to them."

"What do you mean?" The Warden shifted uneasily, her eyes going to the fire. The others were no longer watching so openly, and Leliana had picked up her lute, though the tune that she had selected was simple enough to be played without thought. Wynne had little doubt where her attention was focused, and Alistair's, too, though he seemed to be listening to the bard's performance. "You're my friends, not my subjects."

"As you are our friend," Wynne confirmed, "but you are also our leader. We follow you because we trust you." She paused for a long moment before adding, "You betrayed that trust today."

"By trying to kill Howe?" Talia's face hardened into a rebellious expression. "You're saying that I should have just let the man who murdered my family walk away?"

"Yes," Wynne replied simply. "Grey Warden or not, none of us would have abandoned you. If the guards had tried to capture you, or if Howe had returned with reinforcements, we would have fought beside you, and most likely died there. Is that what you wanted to happen?"

"No!" Talia closed her eyes, shaking her head desperately against it. "No! I never wanted - I never asked for this! Any of it!" she protested, her frustrated cry unknowingly echoing nearly every child who had been brought into the Circle. She dropped her head, one hand digging into the grass at her side, the other gripping Starfang's hilt. "Howe was mine to deal with. I never wanted the rest of you to risk yourselves."

"If you live apart from others, and your actions affect no one but yourself, then you have the luxury of doing whatever you wish." The mage kept her voice calm, her words measured. Teaching, not scolding. Reaching out, she slipped her fingers beneath Talia's chin with a gentle pressure that raised the warrior's miserable eyes to hers. "But if you have power, influence, strength, whatever the source, your every action will be as a drop of water into a still, clear pond. Every drop causes ripples, and ripples spread. You must think of how far they will go, how large they will become, how they will affect the pond."

"I try." Talia's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "I try to protect you all. I'm the first into every fight! Every time!" Her fist pounded into the ground in emphasis of her words.

Wynne sighed. "Yes, you are, but have you ever looked to see the ripples that causes, particularly when you enter a berserker's trance? The others - Alistair and Leliana in particular - put themselves in harm's way to protect you, because you don't protect yourself."

"What?" Talia's head jerked around, eyes flashing in sudden anger. "Dammit, they shouldn't be -"

"They do no less than you would do for them." Wynne's hand on Talia's arm kept her from rising, her blue eyes calmly holding Talia's until the warrior surrendered, settling back to the ground and acknowledging the truth of her words with a reluctant nod. "You care, Talia, and that is no small thing in this world, but you must allow those you care for to care for you in return, and understand that even actions that you think will affect only you can spread to encompass us all."

"I...don't want anyone to get hurt." Talia swallowed hard, looking uncertain, almost afraid. "Not because of me. I just...when it takes me, I don't know how to stop it."

"Have you tried to control it?" Wynne prodded her gently, knowing full well what 'it' was. "Really tried?"

The Warden's gaze dropped. "No," she admitted ashamedly. "It makes it easier. I don't remember their eyes then." She trailed off, lifting Starfang, the faint gleam of the enchantments that Sandal had worked into the blade reflecting silver in her own eyes. "Darkspawn are one thing, but people -" She swallowed, chewing at her lower lip. "You can see it in their eyes, when they know they're about to die, and then you can see the life leaving them. And it's so easy, most of the time." Her voice had grown flat, devoid of affect, but her eyes were haunted as they stared at her sword. "When I was learning to fight, back in Highever, it was fun; I never realized then that being good at fighting meant being good at killing."

"And I, for one, am glad that you are," Wynne told her, smiling faintly at the girl's look of surprise. "War is not a pretty business, Talia, and it requires warriors who can fight, and kill when necessary. Killing should never be easy on the mind, no matter how easy the act itself is; taking a life, even the life of an enemy who is trying to kill you, is no small thing, even when it is necessary. That it troubles you is not a bad thing, but hiding from it in a berserker's rage only makes it more likely that you will kill someone needlessly, or that one of your friends will be hurt or killed trying to protect you. You must learn to control yourself."

Talia snorted softly, lips quirking in a wry smile. "Morrigan told me the same thing."

"She was right." _Though her reasons were likely not the same as mine._ She and the witch circled each other as warily as a pair of cats: neither trusting or particularly liking the other, but each quite aware of the other's power. In some ways, Wynne pitied the younger woman her harsh upbringing, but it did not change the fact that she was here for reasons of her own, none of which likely included saving Ferelden from the Blight.

"I guess if the two of you agree on something, I'd better listen, eh?" The smile had a hint of mischief in it now, though her eyes remained serious.

"That's one way of looking at it," Wynne said with a laugh, then grew serious again herself. "You are a good person, Talia, and your parents would be proud of you. Between you and Alistair, I have hope that we will succeed, despite the long odds." Remembering her words to Leliana and Alistair, she lifted her hand and pointed a finger at the Warden, shaking it slightly as she spoke. "And I want you to be alive at the end of it!"

"Yes, ma'am," Talia replied, adding cautiously, "You will be, too, won't you?"

"Oh, yes," Wynne assured her. "I have every intention of seeing this through." Some days, that resolve was stronger than others, but she could not allow herself to falter. The dead at Ostagar and those slain by Uldred's treachery could not be permitted to die in vain. "I believe that Morrigan set aside some dinner for you," she offered as she pushed herself carefully to her feet, feeling her joints protesting. A bit of wine was definitely in order before bed.

"I'd like to stay out here for a little longer," Talia replied, shaking her head. "I need to think."

"As you wish," the mage told her, "but I think there are some who would like to speak to you." She nodded toward the fire, and Talia followed her gaze to where Alistair and Leliana had abandoned all pretense of not watching. "I don't think you've received the last scolding of the night."

"Probably not," Talia sighed, looping her arm over Brego's shoulders and pulling the mabari to her, laying her head against the thick neck. "It's all right, though; I earned it, didn't I?"

"You certainly did," Wynne agreed, turning to go.

"Wynne?"

The mage turned back. Talia was watching her, her chin resting on Brego's back. "Thank you."

"We all serve each other, Talia," Wynne said with a warm smile. "That is the essence of friendship."

Alistair and Leliana were on their feet and past her before she had made it back to the fire. She watched, smiling fondly as they settled to either side of Talia, three heads immediately bending close in conversation. The bonds that had formed between them were the heart of this odd fellowship and the source of her greatest hope. They strengthened each other: Alistair's humor, Leliana's faith, Talia's determination. She hoped that the romantic interests that seemed to be developing would not destroy the friendships.

"You have a gift for comfort, it seems, my dear Wynne," Zevran observed. "Did I mention that I am an orphan? I never knew my mother."

She fixed the elf with her best 'grandmother look'. "This information has a purpose, I assume?"

"I was simply feeling sad, thinking of it," he replied with an ease that belied his words. "Perhaps if I could rest my head upon your bosom and cry, I would feel better."

"You can do any crying well away from my bosom," she informed him crisply.

"I was beaten as a child. Often. Very tragic."

"I think I know why," she muttered, stepping past him on her way to her tent.

"Did you preach her into submission, old woman?" Morrigan called mockingly. "Or simply bore her to sleep?"

Wynne stopped, looking to where the witch sat in her camp apart. "Actually, it seems that you and I are in agreement on at least one thing," she replied.

"I find that very unlikely," Morrigan sniffed disdainfully.

"I was a bit surprised, myself," the mage admitted, ducking into her tent. Age might have slowed her movement, but her ears remained sharp, and she heard the muttered oath as Morrigan realized that Wynne was not going to tell her what their unlikely agreement had been about. And the witch would cut out her own tongue before asking.

A smug smile curved her lips as she changed into her nightgown and poured a bit of wine into a mug. She had outgrown most of the vices of her youth, but she couldn't resist an occasional bout of cattiness.


	18. Interlude: The Lion And The Jackal

"I ought to have the lot of them shipped off to Fort Drakon! Incompetent, cowardly idiots!"

Loghain Mac Tir let Howe rant on before him, barely listening to the man's words. This was what you got when positions were conferred by birth, rather than by worth. Rendon Howe had continued his predecessor's practice of padding the Denerim guard with bastard sons of the nobility to curry favor with his cronies, and the market district was inevitably assigned the least competent of the lot. According to witnesses, not one of them had backed up their sergeant, leaving him to take on two Grey Wardens and their allies alone.

Kylon deserved a promotion for his determination, but the brutal truth was that Loghain would almost have preferred it if the Wardens had killed the man, instead of simply releasing their hostage when they were clear. It would have made it easier to sway public perception of the event. As it was, the deaths of Howe's guards were being greeted with raised mugs and mocking laughs in taverns throughout Denerim, and the reputation of the two surviving Wardens – Maric's bastard and the Cousland brat – had been elevated another notch in the eyes of the commoners.

Blast it all! Who was he doing this for, if not the people of Ferelden? Certainly not for the soft and spoiled 'nobles' who would have given the land back to Orlais on a silver platter to save themselves the trouble of actually defending it. Maric must be spinning in his grave; his son and only heir had turned out to be a boy with a head filled with foolish dreams, dreams that had gotten him killed, and now this: wasting time trying to force the Arls and Banns into line when they should be united to deal with the darkspawn!

Not that this was a Blight; that had simply been a lie of the Wardens, a handy excuse to force their way back to prominence, but if Ferelden could not stand together to face this threat, it would be like waving a banner announcing their weakness to every nation.

And his staunchest ally among the nobles was this man, who seemed bent upon collecting as many titles as possible: Arl of both Amaranthine and Denerim, Teyrn of Highever – though Loghain had not yet confirmed that appointment. Holding it back served as both a carrot and a reminder to Howe that Loghain outranked him even without his status as his daughter's Regent. Rendon Howe's reputation had been made at the battle of White River during the Orlesian occupation; he was an abrasive bastard, but he was a _brave_ abrasive bastard, and Loghain had thought him a true patriot, but -

He'd thought that Bryce Cousland was a patriot, as well, though he had only Rendon Howe as witness to the man's traitorous intent. His tale of the Teyrn's confession that he had been in contact with Orlais to broker a marriage between the Orlesian royal house and the Theirin line had sounded all too plausible, particularly in light of Arl Eamon's urging Cailan to set Anora aside and remarry...as if _she_ were the reason no children had been conceived, when her husband had preferred playing soldier to trying to beget an heir!

But Loghain was no fool, and it would be impossible not to notice the convenient ends met by those who possessed what Howe desired: first the Couslands of Highever and then the Arl of Denerim, murdered in an 'alienage uprising'. He'd found no proof that the man had lied, but he still made a point never to turn his back on him when they were alone, and Cauthrien was seldom far away.

"I'm more interested in the witness accounts of the elf who accompanied the Wardens and helped them escape," he said at last, cutting off Howe's vitriolic diatribe without a hint of apology. "He sounds amazingly like the Antivan that you brought to me."

"I noticed that myself, Your Grace," Howe replied, his voice taking on the oily tone that he assumed when he felt pressed, but not yet cornered. "No doubt he is simply biding his time and waiting for an opening. A Grey Warden is a formidable target, after all, regardless of the skill of the assassin."

"Assassin? You hired an assassin to kill the Wardens?"

Loghain gave Howe a reproving glare before turning to face his daughter. "A brutal necessity, Anora, and one that royal houses have been making use of for centuries." He wasn't proud of it, and he likely would never have conceived of the notion on his own, just as using the blood mage to poison Arl Eamon had been an idea suggested to him by the current Arl of Denerim. Diffidently, of course. Always diffidently:

" _An opportunity has arisen, Your Grace."_

" _An opportunity?" Loghain had never been one to speak in euphemisms, while Rendon Howe seemed to relish them, his gray eyes gleaming with the true intent behind his smooth words._

" _A chance to head off Eamon's treachery. I have a source within Redcliffe who claims that Eamon's son is showing signs of magical ability."_

_Eamon's son a mage? That would deprive the Arl of an heir, but would not prevent him from continuing to press Cailan to take a new queen. "Go on."_

" _The Arlessa has evidently kept the knowledge from Eamon and is attempting to locate a mage outside the Chantry to give the boy sufficient training to conceal himself. The blood mage that was removed from templar custody could be of use in this matter."_

_More euphemisms. The templars from whose custody the blood mage had been 'removed' had not survived the removal, and Howe had not informed Loghain of the use of his soldiers to accomplish it until it was done. Loghain had no great love for the Chantry, but to deliberately antagonize the venerable institution by slaughtering its soldiers was foolhardy. What was done was done, however, and Loghain had allowed Howe to keep the blood mage in custody against future need for the formidable and forbidden magics that he could use._

" _To teach a boy how to hide his magic?" If the Chantry believed that Eamon was involved in the deception, it could damage his credibility, but -_

" _To gain access to the Arl," Howe clarified smoothly. "In addition to their arcane talents, mages also frequently possess knowledge of the uses of certain types of plants and other substances."_

_Poison. He spoke of poisoning Rowan's younger brother, uncle of the King. A man who had spit upon the sacrifices of his sister and Maric by taking an Orlesian as his wife, and who might even now be encouraging Cailan to do the same. "Do it," he said with a nod._

" _It shall be as Your Grace commands."_

Rendon Howe could lick boots with the best of them, but he was willing to touch the tasks that other men would not. It didn't make Loghain like or trust the man any more, and perhaps that made him a hypocrite, but hard times required hard actions. He did not matter, and neither did Howe, nor Eamon; the survival of Ferelden was paramount.

Anora scowled at him now, ignoring Howe, as she always did. "You should have told me. _I_ am the Queen. It will reflect upon me, if it is discovered. Those Wardens are quite popular right now." One pale brow arched pointedly. "They're actually killing the darkspawn."

She was without doubt his daughter: practical to a fault, but while they agreed on the importance of preserving Ferelden, he had been displeased to discover that she differed markedly with him on how it should be achieved, and was growing more vocal with her disagreement as the weeks wore on.

"We will discuss this later," he told her curtly. _In private,_ his eyes added. Queen or not, he remained her father, and he had taught her everything she knew about leading, but she frequently forgot that he had not taught her everything that _he_ knew. She would never have chastised him so openly in public, but she held Howe in such contempt that she rarely acknowledged his presence, even to the degree of guarding her tongue. "I will do whatever is necessary, for you and Ferelden."

"As you did for Cailan?" The barely veiled accusation caught him by surprise. She had known her husband for a fool, had ruled in his stead for five years while he played the hero, yet she had still cared for him, perhaps even loved him, in some odd way. Loghain had known that she had her suspicions about exactly what had transpired at Ostagar, but she had said nothing until now. He stared at her, unflinching, until a blush colored her fair cheeks and she dropped her eyes in surrender, murmuring something about matters of state as she backed from the room.

Howe swallowed nervously at the icy gaze that Loghain directed at him. "I apologize, Your Grace," he said, still all oil and servility. "Women rarely appreciate the necessity behind such weighty decisions; I should have censored my words."

"Yes. You should have." Bryce Cousland would not have been so obsequious; the other nobles had respected his opinions. Why had he turned traitor?

_But did he?_

Even as the thought rose, he was putting it to bed with the weary ease of long practice. He had chosen the path that would save Ferelden, and the allies that came with it. If he faltered now, it would be seen as weakness. The only way out was forward, and by the Maker, he _would_ see Ferelden through this crisis.

Howe cleared his throat. "I have received some...interesting information regarding one of the Wardens' companions," he offered. He hastened on, evidently remembering the Teyrn's intense dislike of guessing games. "It seems that she is an Orlesian: a bard who had concealed herself in Lothering, posing as a lay sister to the Chantry for several years."

An Orlesian bard? Loghain's jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. It was just as it had been before: the Grey Wardens were nothing more than agents for their former conquerors. Maric had refused to believe it, and Cailan had been even worse, but now...

"Where did you obtain this information?"

"An...Orlesian noblewoman," Howe confessed, obviously well aware of how well such news would be received. "A Contessa Marjolaine Duvalier. She sent you a missive advising you of the situation; it seems the woman is wanted in Orlais for selling state secrets. The Contessa feels that she might be attempting to use the Wardens to regain the favor she has lost."

_Sent me a missive?_ "Reading my mail now, are you?"

Howe paled at the deceptively calm tone. "Only that from Orlais, Your Grace. I employ a very skilled man to inspect it; even the briefest note could be sealed in an envelope with a potent poison. The Orlesian nobles are most skilled in political intrigue. I thought it best -"

"You thought wrongly. From now on, I am to see all such letters before they are – inspected. Better yet, burn them outright and spare anyone the risk."

"Burn them?" The Arl's surprise showed in spite of himself. "But Your Grace, there may be advantage to be gained from the knowledge they provide. The Contessa knows this bard, and has offered her assistance in -" He trailed off at the look on the face of the Regent of Ferelden.

"Burn them," Loghain grated out each word deliberately, "and never speak to me of such things again." He would not, in fact or seeming, consort with anything from Orlais. Not now, not ever.

"As you wish, Your Grace." Howe composed his face into a mask of neutrality as he bowed, but not before the Teyrn caught sight of the displeasure in those calculating gray eyes.

"I will deal with the Wardens and their Orlesian allies myself," he said. "Now, leave me." He deliberately turned his back, leaning on the windowsill and staring out over the city, his true attention focused behind him, waiting. Would the jackal forget that it was the lion who gave him the scraps from his kills? Not today, it seemed; after a brief hesitation, the Arl's quick footsteps receded toward the door and faded.

The jackal still followed the lion, but not out of loyalty. Even if his other suspicions were wrong, Loghain knew that he was right about this, but he couldn't afford to give a damn. That Howe followed, that he was useful, was all that was important.

Ferelden was all that mattered.


	19. Scars and Faith

Talia glanced up from sharpening Starfang as Alistair burst back into camp, tensing until she realized that his sword remained in its sheath. He didn't look alarmed, exactly: just…flushed.

"No bath?" she asked, glancing at the towel that was still folded neatly over one arm. Evenings had only recently remained warm enough to make bathing comfortable, and one or more of the companions generally took advantage when they camped near suitable water.

"Ah – no." If anything, his blush deepened. "No, I think I'll wait for a few more minutes…hours. Maybe tomorrow." His face flaming now, he dove into his tent.

Talia stared after him. "What the –"

"I suspect that he already found the river already in use for his intended purpose," Zevran observed with a lazy smirk from his spot beside the fire, where he was mixing and bottling poisons with his usual deceptive casualness.

A quick glance around the camp revealed only one member of the group missing. "Leliana?"

"Why yes, I believe that she did mention going for a bath." Morrigan's face was all innocence as she chopped mushrooms for the stewpot.

Talia regarded her steadily. "And you didn't tell Alistair?"

The witch shrugged, unconcerned. "He did not ask me."

The Warden sighed, but did not reprimand the witch, knowing that it would do little good. Instead, she set her sword aside and stood, walking to the other Warden's tent. "Alistair?"

A long pause, and then, "And here I thought I'd hidden so well."

"Try Morrigan's tent next time," she quipped, earning a dirty look from the witch. "No one would ever think to look for you there." A rude noise emerged from within, and she chuckled. "Can I come in?"

"I shouldn't, after such cruelty, but yes."

She ducked through the flap, finding him sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs. He glanced up at her as she entered. "Have I mentioned that I don't like that woman?"

"A few times, as I recall," Talia replied, smiling as she settled to the ground beside her friend, "but I don't think that Leliana would be all that upset just because you saw her bathing." The bard did not flaunt herself, and always took her baths alone, but now that she had revealed the secrets of her past in Orlais, she had become more relaxed and willing to tease; she particularly enjoyed making Alistair blush with her jokes and tales.

"I know," he admitted, hanging his head. "It caught me by surprise, but that's not really –" He broke off, the sheepish expression becoming somber. "Her back, Talia. I know that she told us that those bastards hurt her, but Maker, I never realized –" He swallowed hard, his face bleak, hazel eyes glinting with anger. "Talia, there's not an inch of skin on her back and shoulders that's not marked, and they're not small scars. They may even go lower - she was in the water, so I couldn't see – I mean, I wasn't _trying_ to see, of course, but –"

"I know," Talia stopped him. "She saw you?" She'd never given thought before to why Leliana preferred to bathe alone, but it made sense now. The punishments that the Orlesian guards had inflicted on her would have left marks.

Alistair nodded. "She did. She ducked under the water, and I – I just bolted." He looked shamefaced. "I didn't know what to do, what to say. I mean, she was naked, but – how could anybody do that to another person?"

"I don't know," Talia replied softly. "I wish I did." If she had known before that people could be as treacherous and cruel as Rendon Howe and Marjolaine, would she have detected Howe's duplicity before the attack? It was a question that continued to haunt her, in spite of her best efforts to put it away. Wynne had been right, and the realization of just how close her loss of control had come to getting all of them killed or imprisoned had been a sobering one. For their sakes, for the memory of her parents, who would have expected it of her, she had to set aside the quest for vengeance and focus on dealing with the Blight.

After the Blight was ended, though...

"Could you please check on her?" Alistair's question cut into her brooding thoughts. "I think she was more upset that I saw the scars than anything." He sighed. "Damn Morrigan, anyway."

"I don't think she knew that would happen," Talia offered as she stood. "She just wanted to embarrass you, that's all."

"I'm sure that will be a great comfort to Leliana," Alistair retorted tersely.

"There is that," Talia agreed, ducking out of the tent and moving back to where she had left Starfang, buckling her belt over her tunic and sheathing the blade.

Morrigan watched her through narrowed eyes. "Did the virgin make a greater fool of himself than I thought possible?" she queried archly.

"No, you did," Talia replied, keeping her tone level and leaving the witch to make of the comment what she would as she strode from the camp into the forest, angling in the direction of the river. A flash of white low to the ground caught her eye, and she paused long enough to pluck the sweet smelling flowers. The steady advance of spring toward summer had made them plentiful around rivers and streams, and Leliana liked to use the petals to sweeten the smell of her clothes and armor. It reminded her of her mother, she'd told Talia: good memories, and while Talia did not yet possess such a reliable trigger for her own memories, she took satisfaction in being able to offer that comfort to her friend.

She heard Leliana before she saw her; the faintest of sniffles turned her aside from the trail, finding the bard sitting beside the river, clothed in her tunic and trews, boots beside her and her arms wrapped around her knees. Her face was all but hidden by the fall of her damp hair, but the slight tension in her shoulders betrayed her awareness of the warrior's presence.

"Hey." Talia settled to the ground beside the bard, keeping a bit of space between them.

"Hey," Leliana responded, turning her head to offer a wan smile, though her eyes were reddened and damp, her cheeks wet with tears. "Do not mind me, I am just being silly." She drew a shaky breath, then, "Alistair told you, I suppose?"

Talia nodded, then extended her hand, offering the flowers. "He sent these as an apology."

Tear-filled or not, the blue eyes watched her knowingly as Leliana accepted the Andraste's Grace. "Did he, now?"

"Well, no," Talia admitted with a sheepish smile, "but he would have, if he'd been the one to find them."

"He has nothing to apologize for, anyway," the bard said softly, dropping her eyes. A pause, then, "He saw the scars, didn't he? I had hoped that perhaps it was dark enough, but..." She trailed off with a resigned sigh.

"He did," Talia confirmed, "but that's not why he bolted back to camp. He was just embarrassed at seeing you bathing, that's all."

Leliana nodded absently, her expression sad as she sniffed at the flowers. "I have never shown them to anyone. Even in the Chantry, I kept them hidden, afraid of what might happen if they were seen." She glanced sideways at Talia, her face unreadable.

"You don't have to be afraid with us," Talia told her. "You've already told us what happened, how you got the scars. They're nothing to be ashamed of."

"Are they not?" the redhead countered, a faint note of bitter challenge in her voice as she shifted, turning so that her back was to the Warden, her hands drawing her tunic upward. "See for yourself."

The moon was not yet full, but the night was clear, and Talia drew a sharp breath at the myriad scars that marred the skin of the bard's back. Not one or two, or even several, but dozens... scores... crisscrossing each other until scarcely an inch of skin remained untouched. Thin, pale lines left by blades; thicker, gnarled marks made by whips and lashes; darker, raised burn scars. They extended downward, disappearing beneath the waistband of Leliana's trousers, and upward under the tunic, presumably across both shoulders.

"What's this?" Talia pushed the cloth of the tunic up slightly, her fingers careful as they brushed over a burn scar that had an oddly symmetrical shape to it.

"The _fleur-de-lis_." Leliana's voice was toneless. "It is used to mark traitors to the Empire: those condemned to death or worse." She was silent for a moment before continuing. "Marjolaine suspected that I might escape, I think. Perhaps she even planned it. My torturers were careful to avoid leaving marks that would be easily visible. My back, my buttocks...the soles of the feet can be extremely sensitive." She remained detached, almost clinical, but a thin line of tension undercut her words. "I might run, hide, perhaps even find shelter with others for a time, but always I would risk them seeing the scars, the brand, being known for what I was and spurned, or even turned in for the reward." She dropped her head, her next words barely audible. "It was another way of tormenting me. She knew of so many."

"But she failed, didn't she?" Talia drew the hem of the tunic down until her friend's back was covered once more. Anger was trying to kindle in her belly, but Marjolaine and the possibility of revenge were far away, and her rage would accomplish nothing here and now. "You survived and got away." Seeing the extent of the scarring made it clear just how great of an accomplishment that had been; there was a strength in the bard that none of them had guessed at, and that she could still hold such a steadfast belief in a benevolent deity was another wonder. "You're with us now; we won't send you away or turn you in." She couldn't quite keep herself from adding, "And the Maker help anyone else who tries to."

That earned her the faintest of smiles. "Yes, she did fail, and the Maker blessed me by leading me to such brave and true friends." The bard shifted, resting her head against Talia's shoulder. Since that day in the meadow, when she'd told them the truth of her past, she'd developed a penchant for such things, seeming to take comfort in the contact, and Talia found that she didn't mind. Her family had always been open with displays of affection, exchanging hugs readily and often. This wasn't the same, but it still made her feel a bit closer to who she had been before Howe's betrayal. She slipped an arm around her friend's waist, and they sat in companionable silence for several minutes.

"How -" Talia hesitated, trying to frame her words with care. The last time this subject had been touched on, the rawness of her emotions had led to a harsh response that she did not want to repeat. "With what you suffered, how can you still believe that the Maker cares?"

"I lived," Leliana said simply. "The evil that men do is of their own devising, and it is why the Maker withdrew from his creation, but he does not allow that evil to flourish unopposed. He worked through Andraste to end the tyranny of the Tevinter magisters, and he reaches forth in lesser matters, as well. I did not escape from the dungeons without aid: a member of the Chanty, one who had herself been used and betrayed by Marjolaine, helped me to break free, concealed me until I was strong enough to travel. She was a Revered Mother in the Chantry of a little town on the border between Ferelden and Orlais: a humble station, but her faith was pure and true, shining like a beacon to me." She paused, a shadow of pain touching her features. "Much like the Revered Mother in Lothering."

Talia tightened the circle of her arm, and Leliana leaned into the hug for several moments before she went on. "If I had not suffered as I had, had not been imprisoned, I might never have met Mother Dorothea, never have been shown the Maker's grace...or perhaps I simply would not have recognized it. He can shape even the most evil of acts to his will, if we only only search for his presence and allow ourselves to be guided by him."

"I...don't know if I can believe that," Talia admitted. She couldn't even say with honesty that she believed the Maker existed at all, but if he did, she was certain that he had been nowhere to be found in Highever that night. Setting aside revenge in the name of duty was one thing, but as much as she wanted to comfort Leliana, even entertaining the thought that anything good could have come from her family's slaughter felt like a betrayal of their memory.

"I know," Leliana replied softly. "During the worst of my torment, the notion of faith was inconceivable; it was only later that I was able to believe that the Maker had been at work, even in my darkest moments. Perhaps the same will be true of you, with time." She glanced up quickly, worry flickering across her face. "I do not say this to cause offense -"

"No." Talia shook her head, knowing that the Orlesian was thinking of their first argument. "It's all right." If Leliana's words had not inspired a sudden swell of faith, neither was there the surge of anger that had overwhelmed her before. "I wish I had your faith sometimes, but I just don't think I'll ever be able to see anything good in what Howe did."

"His actions were evil," the bard agreed. "The good lies in what the Maker wrought from that tragedy. You are a Grey Warden, and a good one, and...and we are friends, and you have Alistair, and -" She dropped her head. "I babble too much," she murmured. "We are a poor replacement for your family, I know. I hope you are not angry with me."

"I'm not," Talia assured her. "You and Alistair are the best friends I've ever had. You're not the reason that my family was killed, and you're not trying to replace them. Maybe someday I'll be able to see it as you do, maybe someday I'll be able to believe in the Maker, but for now..." She paused, shrugged the shoulder that Leliana was not leaning against. "I believe in you and Alistair. And Wynne. Even Sten. Or Shale." The qunari remained as inscrutable as ever, and the golem could still remember nothing before its time in the village, but there was a steadiness in them both that she had come to rely upon, though not so strongly as the others she had named. Even Morrigan and her bluntness, though she did not say so; she knew that Leliana shared Alistair's opinion of the witch, and she could not in all honesty say that it was unfounded.

"And Zevran?" There was a teasing note to the other's voice, but there was a hint of curiosity beneath.

"Him I'm still not sure of," Talia admitted, "though if he wanted to betray us, I gave him the perfect chance in Denerim," she added ruefully. "He's interesting to talk to, I'll admit." The elf's lessons in detecting deception had continued in the days since Denerim, and were generally accompanied by instructive – if colorful – tales from his adventures. He never tried to hide his own culpability in his deeds, and if he showed no regrets, neither did he glory in the killing itself. As he had said in Denerim, it was the acquisition of his target and the frequently complex chain of actions and intrigues leading up to the act that required the bulk of the time, and it was that challenge that he seemed to relish the most. "I'm learning a lot from him."

"I could teach you such things as well, if you liked." There was a barely hidden undercurrent to the bard's voice that Talia finally identified as hurt.

She shook her head. "Zevran is a tool to be used, until he proves himself otherwise. I figure it's the least he can do for trying to kill me," she added with a wry smile that faded as she went on. "You are a friend. I won't ask you to relive a time in your life that caused you so much pain." Her hand brushed lightly over Leliana's back, feeling the worst of the scars beneath the linen: hidden, but still present. "It wouldn't be right."

"The knowledge remains, whether I use it or not," Leliana replied softly, looking away with sad eyes. "If it is put to use in an honorable endeavor, at least some good will come of those times."

"It already has," Talia told her, nudging her until the blue eyes met hers once more. "You teach me other things. Better things, like faith."

"Truly?" The bard watched her closely.

"Yes," Talia replied, holding the other's gaze, letting her judge the truth for herself. "Maybe I don't believe, but I'm starting to want to. Because of you. Your mercy has stayed my hand more than once, and I've yet to regret it." Loghain's men in Lothering; a penitent blood mage in the Circle tower; Zevran. She would have been within her rights to kill any of them, but each time, it had been the Orlesian's counsel that had kept her from it. After a long moment, Leliana nodded, the worry smoothing away from her face, and dropped her head back to Talia's shoulder with a sigh, and they settled once more into a comfortable silence.

"Thank you, my friend," she said at last, getting to her feet and extending a hand to the Warden. "Now, we should probably go and assure Alistair that I am not angry with him, no?"


	20. A Bit of Spice

_"The highwayman came riding,_

_Riding, riding!_

_The highwayman came riding_

_Up to the old inn door."_

The music of the lute cut off suddenly, and Leliana's voice went silent. Talia tensed and spun, her weight on the balls of her feet, shield braced to take the blow that she knew was coming.

Sten's sword struck, not with crushing force, but with an adroit pressure near the top of the heater, designed to slant it inward and allow the blade to slide up and over, into the face of his opponent. It was a move that he had drilled her on before; she ducked her head and raised her shield arm a bit, letting the momentum of the greatsword carry it in a sweeping arc overhead.

As she leaped forward to take advantage of what she hoped would be a gap in the qunari's defenses, Leliana began to sing again:

_"He'd a tricorn hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,_

_A coat of claret velvet, and breeches of brown doeskin."_

It had been the bard's idea to add a bit of the unexpected to their evening sparring sessions by setting them to music that would stop without warning. When it did, they were to switch opponents, immediately and without pause. Talia, Sten, Alistair, and - most recently - Zevran, had been engaging in this activity for nearly a week now, and even Sten, while he did not enjoy it as openly as the other three, admitted that it was a good test of awareness and reflexes.

Leliana had learned to preview her tunes before playing them during practice, however. The current song had become a favorite of Talia's, but the first time she'd heard it, she'd been so busy listening that Sten had nearly taken her head of with a blow that a blind man could have blocked.

Sten backed away from her attack, his motions smooth and controlled, his violet eyes fixed on her. The blunted sword that he used for practice was back at the ready position, but Asala was secured across his back, as much a part of the big man as his arms and legs. Dwyn had surrendered the blade readily, though from his grumblings as they left, Talia suspected that Feryn would be receiving a visit from the dwarf in the not-too-distant future.

If Sten had been formidable before, he seemed well-nigh unstoppable now that he had been reunited with his soul. The pensive expression appeared no more upon his face, and he fought like a whirlwind. His loyalty to Talia had been sealed the moment she had delivered the blade into his hands; he obeyed without question now, and when she had gingerly inquired if it was his desire to return to Seheron, now that he could, his only response had been that the Arishok would receive a more complete answer to his question if one of the qunari aided in defeating the archdemon.

Not that this meant that he took it any easier on her in practice, however. The opposite, in fact, seemed to be true: evidently operating on the assumption that if she could stand against him, she could stand against any opponent (not an unreasonable assumption, mind you), he pushed her relentlessly to the limits of her abilities and just beyond. She loved it. If the battles and killing that they slogged through each day were things to be endured and survived, these evening bouts were pure joy: all skill and learning and exhilaration that took her back to the best days at Highever.

She kept moving in, determined to deny him the advantage of distance. He could no longer beat her at will, but he remained the better fighter. A swift sidestep, followed by a step back, and she barely managed to turn and raise her shield to block the blow.

By the fire, Leliana finished her tune and moved into another as smoothly as Sten had evaded Talia's attack:

_"There was a fair maid and she lived all alone_

_She lived all alone on the shore_

_No one could she find for to calm her sweet mind_

_But to wander alone on the shore, shore, shore_

_To wander alone on the shore"_

Music and words stopped, and Talia immediately sprang back and twisted to her right, barely aware of Zevran moving to engage Sten as she and Alistair met in a clash of steel, shields slamming together briefly before they spun apart.

"Reverse!" Sten barked without ever looking away from the agile Antivan. They both knew what he meant; Talia set her feet, settling into the defensive stance that Alistair normally favored, while he in turn attempted to imitate Talia's highly mobile and aggressive style. They had grumbled when the qunari had insisted upon the practice technique, but while each one still tended to favor their own style in combat, the increased versatility had come in handy on more than one occasion.

Alistair charged, seeking to use his greater weight to knock her off balance, but Talia pivoted, tilting her shield to let him slide by, catching a glancing blow to her helmet as she brought her arm down and around, laying the flat of her blade smartly across the backs of both of his thighs.

"Hey!"

Talia grinned at him, settling back into stance as Morrigan's mocking laugh rang out from the far side of the camp.

"Perhaps he should be taking a bit less on his plate at dinner. He definitely seems to be presenting a larger target of late."

"Really?" Alistair glanced down over his shoulder, his forehead wrinkled in an exaggeration of dismay. "I just thought this armor made my hips look big."

"Fight!" Sten bellowed, and the sparring resumed until the music ceased again. Zevran was next, requiring just the opposite of the tactics that she had used with Sten. Where fighting the qunari was all about getting close, where he couldn't use the range of that massive sword, facing off against an agile elf armed with daggers required distance, and their matches almost resembled a dance, with both of them in constant, fluid motion, each maneuvering for an opening.

He moved in with the speed of a striking snake, the left dagger high, catching her sword and deflecting it, while bringing the right up in an underhand sweep designed to spill an opponent's intestines onto the ground. She brought her shield across her body, knocking his hand off target and stepped back out of range, then immediately lunged forward in a thrust that he whirled around so closely that an observer would have thought that the blunted blade had actually gone through him.

He rushed, she sidestepped. She struck, he dodged. On and on as Leliana finished the tune of the maid and began the song of the prince and the seven challenges. The music ceased, and Talia spun away from the Antivan, turning to meet -

_WHAM!_

Her shield was smashed back against her chest, the force of the impact lifting her off her feet and sending her flying backward several feet to land flat on her back, fighting to reclaim the breath that had been knocked from her.

"Should I have announced myself before joining in?" Shale's oddly resonant voice queried, sounding surprised, though not particularly contrite.

"No," Sten rumbled as a ring of concerned faces appeared over Talia. "A true enemy will not announce their presence or intentions. She must learn to react more quickly."

"Right." Alistair rolled his eyes as he knelt beside Talia, reaching beneath her chin to unfasten the strap and slide her helmet from her head. "Because we all know how many other golems there are wandering around."

"Hits...like...ogre," Talia wheezed, finally managing to suck in a lungful of air, white spots dancing in her vision, while a familiar red haze tried to roll over her. Gentle fingers were trying to coax her sword from her grasp, but she held on, her body still screaming for the fight. "Harder...though."

"That would be the stone part," the other Warden informed her dryly.

"I think it's time for a break anyway," Wynne offered. "There's a good bed of coals for cooking now, Zevran."

"Excellent!" the Antivan exclaimed. "I'll put the peppers in to roast, and dinner will be ready in an hour."

"There is time for one more fight, then," Sten said, shouldering his way forward, his eyes fixed on Talia.

"Are you insane?" Leliana glared at the qunari as she helped the Warden sit up. "She's likely got broken ribs after that! She needs to rest and -"

"No. He's right." Talia pushed herself to her feet, releasing the sword long enough to jam her helmet back onto her head, feeling the battle rage, awakened by the unexpected blow, trying to take hold. It almost never triggered in practice; this was not an opportunity to be wasted. "Come on, Sten. One more."

The qunari nodded gravely, backing away from the others. "Control it," he cautioned her. "Do not let it control you."

Control. There was power here, if she could only learn to harness it to her will. Power that she could use to protect her friends, avenge her family. She could feel it thrumming through her veins, demanding her surrender. She shook her head, clearing the red haze from her vision but not allowing it to dissipate entirely. She drew a deep breath, then another, trying to channel it, feeling it fighting against the restraint like a half-broken horse ready to bolt. One more deep breath and she lunged forward to engage her opponent.

* * *

"Might I trouble you for a few of the scallions that you gathered yesterday?" Zevran asked with a smooth bow.

Morrigan regarded him with an unfriendly expression. "Perhaps you should have taken the time to gather some yourself, instead of trying to talk the Chantry wench into your tent?"

The elf shrugged. "What can I say? I am a slave to a beautiful face. I would be more than willing to repay your efforts with a night of unimaginable pleasure."

"I rather doubt that our ideas of pleasure coincide," she replied, turning to rummage in her pack. "I would settle for being spared your crude attempts at seduction."

"You wound me, dear lady!" Zevran laid a hand over his heart. "But as long as we are discussing seduction, how go your efforts to entice our large companion?"

The golden eyes narrowed, the witch's expression shifting from unfriendly to icy. "That is none of your concern, elf."

"Of course not," he agreed amiably, "but when one lives and dies by the power of observation, one cannot help but notice...things." He gave her a sly smile, glancing briefly over his shoulder to ensure that none of the others were close enough to overhear. "What do you suppose our companions would say if they knew that the seductive and sensual Witch of the Wilds is a virgin?"

"How did you -" She broke off, her cheeks flushing and her expression becoming outright murderous for a brief moment before smoothing back into cold disdain. "I know beyond any doubt what they would say." She leaned close, one sculpted nail tracing a curve against his throat. "A shame about Zevran, dying so young...and in such an excruciating manner."

"I would never betray a lady's secrets," he assured her easily. "But if you ever tire of waiting for the qunari to relieve you of your virtue, I would be more than happy to -"

The bundle of scallions hit him in the chest. "Speak to me of this again and this expedition will gain a eunuch."

"As you wish," he executed a sweeping bow and turned away, feeling her eyes boring into his back. He would need to be on his guard against 'accidents' for some time to come, but that was nothing new, and well worth the amusement. Some secrets could not be fully enjoyed unless their existence was known.

* * *

"Dinner is served!" Zevran announced with a flourish as they gathered around the fire. "The pot on the left is a milder version of the dish; those of you not used to food that actually has flavor might want to partake of that one, or mix it with the original."

"It looks lovely, Zevran," Wynne complimented the elf, "and smells delicious. What is it called?"

"Thank you, my dear Wynne," Zevran replied. "It is an old Antivan recipe; the name translates to 'A Bit of Spice'."

"A bit, eh?" The mage regarded him steadily for a moment, then carefully filled her bowl from the pot on the left.

Leliana scooped a out bit from each pot, while Sten took his portion from the pot on the right. Talia exchanged a glance with Alistair; a grin flashed between them, and they both lined up at the right.

"Oh, Maker," Leliana sighed. "You two might want to taste that before -"

"We're Grey Wardens, woman," Alistair informed her, puffing his chest out. "It takes more than a few peppers to defeat us."

"Suit yourself," the bard replied with a shake of her head, settling herself beside Wynne.

It _did_ look good: the brightly colored peppers were scattered liberally among the rice and seared chunks of venison from the buck that Leliana had brought down the night before. Talia held out her bowl, letting Alistair spoon them each out equally generous portions.

They sat down facing each other on one of the fallen trees that Sten and Shale had dragged to the fireside, a single skin of water between them. Alistair raised a heaping spoonful to his mouth, and Talia followed suit without hesitation. The flavor was - quite good, actually. The savory taste of the venison blended well with the scallions, and the peppers added a complex layering of taste that was hard to define, all of it absorbed into the rice.

She chewed, swallowed, then looked to the Antivan in puzzled surprise. "Zevran, this is pretty -"

_HOLY -_

Her mouth suddenly felt as though she'd been spooning in live coals from the fire, and the roaring blaze was spreading down her throat with alarming speed. Her mouth dropped open, and she sucked in a gasp of air that only served to intensify the inferno. Through the tears that suddenly blurred her vision, she saw Alistair wearing an identical gape-mouthed expression, his face gone an amazing shade of red. Sten was eating stoically, one spoonful after another, but the bronzed skin of his face had darkened noticeably, and rivulets of sweat were running off of him.

Her eyes dropped longingly to the waterskin, then back up to Alistair. She resolutely took another bite, crowing in silent triumph as her opponent set down his bowl and snatched up the skin, raising it to his lips and swallowing desperately.

"Water only spreads the heat around," Zevran offered helpfully - after Alistair had taken a healthy mouthful. His eyes bulged, he spit it onto the ground and went back to panting like a dog, fanning his mouth with one hand and glaring bloody murder at the elf.

Leliana's giggle was - Talia felt - unnecessarily cruel, but she was too preoccupied with the second mouthful of fire to object. For a brief moment, the heat had died down, but it had quickly returned with a vengeance.

"Try this." The bard bent down beside her, pressing something into her hand, then moved to Alistair. Talia looked down: dried apples. "The sweetness will help to reduce the heat," Leliana explained as she sat back down and picked up her own less deadly bowl, her blue eyes twinkling with amusement.

If someone had suggested at that moment that drinking ogre piss would help, Talia would have gone hunting for one with a mug in hand. She popped a slice of apple into her mouth, chewing frantically, swallowed, took another - ah, there! The burning sensation was subsiding. Not completely, but enough that her eyes stopped streaming tears.

Morrigan strode to the campfire, surveying the pair of them with an amused smirk before bending and taking a heaping spoonful from the pot on the right. She chewed and swallowed, her mouth pursed thoughtfully. No reddening of her face, not even a hint of sweat.

"Still a bit bland, I'm afraid," she informed Zevran calmly. "I would recommend a few more of the orange peppers." Filling her bowl, she returned to her camp, leaving Talia and Alistair to stare after her.

Talia looked back at Alistair, saw the set of his jaw and the steely determination in his eyes beneath the tears. She glanced at the generous portions remaining in their bowls, then at the handful of dried apples that remained to her.

"Last one to finish does the dishes?" Alistair croaked.

"You're on."

* * *

_She was searching. Not with her eyes, but with her mind, which could see ever so much further._

_Beneath her feet, her minions milled, bringing her tokens of their homage: the corpses of those they had slain, food to help quell the relentless hunger. The time drew near when she would burst forth from this fathomless prison and challenge the sun for supremacy in the sky. She would hunt for herself, then, but the offerings would continue, and would taste especially sweet: a symbol of the worship that was her due._

_First, though, she must ensure that those who could bring an end to her reign were dealt with. They were almost gone, their ranks decimated at the place the humans called Ostagar, but she could still feel a faint presence, the Taint within them binding them to her as surely as it bound her minions. Only two remained, and the bond was weak: they were young, new to their power and unsure. Never before had one of the Old Ones began such an assault on the world above with such an advantage, but the hate still burned in her, demanding that even this puny threat be obliterated._

_But she could not find them! The bond of the Taint was too tenuous, taunting her with its presence before slipping just beyond her reach._

_"FIND THEM!" she bellowed to her minions, and a fresh wave scurried forth to do her will._

_Lifting her head, she drew a deep breath and sent a gout of searing fire rolling toward the roof of her subterranean sanctuary and prison._

* * *

Fire.

The cry that escaped Talia as she woke turned into an agonized groan at the wave of searing gasses that rolled up from her highly indignant gut. Brego nudged her, an anxious whine curling from his throat.

"Talia?" Leliana's voice, and a moment later, the bard crouched beside her, holding something to her mouth. A dried apple. Talia snatched it greedily, felt Leliana pull her hand away as her lips brushed the skin of her finger.

"Sorry," she mumbled sheepishly around the mouthful of apple. "Did I bite you?"

"No." Her voice sounded odd, but when she spoke again, it was gone, the bantering tone back. "Not for lack of trying, mind you."

Talia chewed and swallowed, sighing with relief as the fire abated. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." A brief pause, then: "Another nightmare?"

"Yeah." She nodded, sitting up and wrapping her arms around her knees. As the nightmares about her family had decreased in frequency, those of the darkspawn had increased to fill the gap. The archdemon appeared on occasion, but this had been a first. "It was the archdemon, but it was like I was inside it, seeing through its eyes. It's looking for us."

"Yes." She felt more than saw Leliana's nod beside her. "It fears you."

Talia snorted. "Because we are so very terrifying, right? All two of us."

"Yes," Leliana said again, calm and sure. "Because it knows that the duty of the Grey Wardens, whether two or two hundred, is to kill its kind."

"And we still have no idea how." During the day, it was easier to keep the realization what their final goal was at bay, focusing only on what had to be done next, but at night, with the darkness pressing in and the nightmares fresh in her mind, it was impossible to brush aside. "I'm going to get us all killed."

"I do not believe that." The softness of the Orlesian's voice robbed it of none of its certainty. "The Maker did not bring us all together just to fail. The Blight is an affront to His creation; I believe that we are meant to end it, and that you are meant to lead us." Gentle fingers smoothed her hair away from her face, blessedly cool.

"Do you believe that Andraste's ashes are in Haven?" Talia asked, deliberately changing the subject. She wished that she had Leliana's faith, and while the bard's words were heartening, if she thought too long about it, the doubts would crowd back again. Better to think of the challenges that lay directly ahead, even if they did consist of a thing that was widely held to be legend, supposedly waiting for them in a town that, according to every map they had consulted, did not exist. They had only Genitivi's writings to guide them.

"I believe that they exist," Leliana replied, "but as to whether they are in this Haven - that is something that we will discover for ourselves, no? It would be a wondrous thing, though, to look upon the earthly remains of the Maker's prophet and bride."

"Proof that she existed?"

Leliana shook her head. "Faith needs no proof, but to be granted such grace would be honor beyond price, though one such as I scarcely deserves it." The wistful tone shaded toward regret, and Talia slipped her hand out, finding Leliana's and squeezing it lightly.

"Who, if not you?" she asked. "Alistair and I lead, but you are our faith, our hope. You're worth more than a dozen of those puffed up Chantry priests."

"I'm not - thank you." Leliana sounded flustered, embarrassed...but pleased. "That means a great deal, coming from you."

"It's the truth," Talia replied, then bit down on a groan as another wave of fire rolled through her gut. "I'm going to kill that damned elf," she muttered, doubling over and pressing a fist into her belly.

"He did try to warn you, you know." The bard's voice was compassionate, but there was still an undeniable undercurrent of amusement, "and no one forced you and Alistair to -"

"I know, I know," Talia grumbled, straightening as the pain eased. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. Is Alistair having the same trouble?" _I hope_ , her mind added uncharitably.

"Quite a bit worse, actually," Leliana replied, and the Warden immediately felt better. "He swears that he can tell exactly where those peppers are at in his gut."

"So can I," Talia grunted, hunching over again. "How's the supply of apples?"

"Holding out," Leliana reached into the small sack that she carried and gave Talia a handful, "but you realize that the real fun will take place sometime tomorrow, when those peppers take their leave of you?"

"Trying not to think about that part," Talia replied morosely, making quick work of the apples and sighing as they took effect. "How long until my watch?"

"Sten took it," Leliana told her, then giggled. "He won't say anything, but I don't think he can sleep. He wouldn't eat any of the apples, and his stomach is making noises that you can hear across camp."

"And Morrigan's probably sleeping like a baby," Talia chuckled weakly. "What are you doing awake, then?"

"Taking care of my Wardens, what else?" came the prompt reply. "Since you both obviously lack the sense to take care of yourselves. The peppers won, in case you were wondering."

"Don't I know it." In spite of the scolding, there was a warm affection in the bard's voice that made Talia smile, thinking of the times that Oriana had played 'big sister' when Fergus was away. She and Leliana would have gotten on well together. She settled back into her blankets, feeling Brego's solid presence beside her. "Would you...sing some more?" she asked hesitantly. Her stomach had calmed enough to allow her to sleep, but the nightmare still loomed close. "You don't have to, if you don't feel like it, I mean, but -"

Leliana's laugh was warm and sweet in the darkness. "I'm a bard, silly. Asking me if I feel like singing is like asking if I feel like breathing. Now, close your eyes." A final brush of the fingertips across her forehead, and the Orlesian began to sing: not a martial tune, or one of the ballads she had sung before, but the Lay of Andraste: a song that chronicled the prophet's rise from slavery. Even without the accompaniment of the lute, Leliana's voice wove its spell, singing of faith and hope, courage and devotion, a soothing balm to the Warden's troubled spirit. She tried to stay awake, to listen to the end, but sleep claimed her, drawing her down so completely that she never stirred when Leliana pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek.

"Sleep well, my Warden."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. - The songs sung by Leliana include "The Highwayman", a poem written by Alfred Noyes & set to music by many (though Loreena McKennitt's version is my favorite), and "The Maid On The Shore", by the late Stan Rogers


	21. Ripples

"Talia, wait!"

She could hear the voices of her companions rising behind her, but she didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Ahead of her, Kolgrim's fleeing form drew her on, the rage pounding in her chest driving her forward, its song of death rising to block all else from her will.

She had tried; she really had, but from the moment they had set foot in Haven, events seemed to be almost conspiring to push her closer and closer to the limits of her control: the cold hostility with which they had initially been greeted; the finding of one of the Redcliffe knights, brutally slaughtered, making it plain that at least some of the villagers had been lying to them.

Then the explosion of violence, the seemingly normal villagers suddenly armed to the teeth and fighting to the death, even after it became clear that they could not hope to defeat the newcomers.

Somewhere along the way, the nine had become a cohesive unit, the unlikely mix of skills and styles coming together into a whole that far exceeded the sum of its parts. She and Alistair formed the backbone: he as steady as a rock, she pivoting around him, moving out, falling back, each always aware of the other's position. Sten guarded the right flank, Asala sweeping in deadly arcs or lashing out in thrusts that could impale a man through a steel breastplate. Shale held the left flank, massive stone fists dealing devastating blows as the power of the crystals washed over his body in waves of coruscating light that added magical damage to the physical. Zevran skirted the edges, waiting for one of them to engage, then darting in from behind, his poisoned blades finding the smallest chinks in armor and driving in.

Wynne, Morrigan and Leliana stayed to the rear. The two mages might not care for each other, but in battle, they worked together seamlessly, Morrigan dealing damage with her elemental spells while Wynne focused her magics on healing and protecting the melee fighters. They could switch roles when needed, though; Morrigan had learned from Wynne (reluctantly, to be sure) how to channel her magic into healing, and Wynne's offensive spells, while few in number, could be devastating in effect. Anyone thinking to attack either of the mages physically would find themselves facing Brego, who also dealt with any foes attempting to flank the front line.

Leliana's skill with a bow was a hole card they had come to rely upon. She could thread an arrow between Talia and Alistair when less than a handspan separated them, take a hare in mid-leap at a hundred paces and have three arrows in the air targeting three separate foes in the time that it took Talia to draw her sword and charge. She was an invaluable weapon against spellcasters; darkspawn or human, it was well-nigh impossible to work magic with an arrow buried in your throat. When the fighting grew too close and fast for even her eye to follow, she did not hesitate to draw her daggers and enter the fray, and Talia had learned to listen for the trilling whistle that announced the arrival of the flame-haired shadow that would take up position on her blind side.

Against them, even the most ardent of Haven's fanatics had stood no chance, but the villagers had fought with a ferocity that had prevented any offer of quarter. Even more shocking had been the mothers who had killed their own children before launching themselves against the stunned companions, as though having them taken alive would be a fate worse than death. It all happened with a speed that allowed no time for reflection, and the waste of lives was bewildering, frustrating.

Infuriating.

Then the Chantry, the arrogant priest who claimed that the cult were the true followers of Andraste, and still more bloodshed; the floor of the Chantry had been slick with it, and it had been Zevran who had noticed the crimson rivulets running beneath a section of wall that had turned out to be a hidden doorway that led them at last to Brother Genitivi, body tortured but spirit unbroken, his quiet dignity the only bright spot in this dark hell. He waited below now, in the outermost rooms of the ruined temple, and Talia could only hope that the lunatics that had flung themselves at them at every turn had not found him.

Cold. The outer rooms of the ruins had been frigid, snow and ice spilling inward through shattered walls, breath billowing in the air like smoke, skin growing so chilled that the wash of blood released by a blade almost burned where it touched.

Then heat: a gradual warming, at first, and one that they were all grateful for, but as the ruined walls of the ancient temple gave way to smooth, twisting tunnels and vaulted chambers whose upper reaches were lost in shadow, the heat had continued to grow until sweat poured off of them, drenching the clothes beneath their armor, the damp cloth chafing the skin, the salt in the sweat trickling over the raw flesh, burning, itching.

Maddening.

And cold or hot, they fought without respite, finding themselves pitted against demons, an unending stream of cultists and, incredibly enough, young dragons, seemingly being raised by the cult in this place. They had killed - _she_ had killed - again and again, over and over, until it all became a blur, until it felt as though there had never been anything but this place, this fight, and there never would be anything more. She had been dancing on a razor's edge: she needed the rage to keep fighting through the exhaustion that dragged at her, so she held it at arm's length, pulling it close enough to breathe in its essence, then pushing it away before it could overwhelm her.

Then Kolgrim. Considering that they had slaughtered everything between him and the front door, his foul mood hadn't been overly surprising, but she had tried to negotiate. If the cult believed that Andraste had risen, then it stood to reason that they would have no use for the ashes, right? But then, he had started in on defiling the ashes with dragon's blood, and even though she knew that what she should do was agree with him, take the vial of dragon's blood and then pitch it off the mountain once they were away from him, the look on Leliana's face, on Alistair's and Wynne's, had locked the words in her throat. If the ashes were real, then Andraste was real, and these fanatics had been holding her hostage on this mountaintop for the Maker only knew how long, killing pilgrims like Genitivi who sought to find her.

In retrospect, however, calling him a blasphemous, lizard-buggering lunatic had quite possibly not been the most politic course of action.

Crazy Kolgrim undoubtedly was, but he was not stupid; after calling on his remaining followers to attack, he fell back, waiting for the three mages accompanying him to soften them up, but Wynne, Morrigan and Leliana kept them engaged at a distance while the others hacked their way through the armored warriors to get to the spellcasters. As the last of his underlings fell, Kolgrim had turned and sprinted up a narrow, sloping tunnel, and Talia had gone after him with the mindless instinct of a hound chasing a hare.

He pushed his way through a door at the end of the tunnel; ignoring the cries of warning behind her, she followed, bursting out into a yellow haze that reeked of rotten eggs. Great pools of steaming, murky water surrounded a raised path that led still further upward, from the mountainside to a stone temple that seemed to have been carved into the very peak of the mountain. She could just make out the cult leader's form racing ahead of her through the sulfurous steam that rose from the pools; halfway up the path, he stopped, eyes staring upward as he lifted a curved horn to his lips.

"Andraste, avenge the slaughter of your faithful!" he cried out before sounding a long, clear note on the horn. Before the sound had even begun to echo from the surrounding mountains, Starfang was buried to the hilt in his chest, the horn falling from his fingers as he crumpled to the ground.

The echoes were answered by a roar that shook the stone beneath Talia's feet, and as she wrenched her sword free, a great shape passed by overhead, momentarily blocking out the sun. The fitful golden light shone dimly through membranous wings that spread wide and swept back as the dragon – no immature wyrmling or drake, but a High Dragon, fully grown and deadly, landed atop the mountain just over the doorway, where her companions stood frozen in shock.

The dragon did not seem to see them, however; its golden, cat-slitted eyes were fixed upon Talia, standing over Kolgrim's corpse with bloodied sword in hand. It extended its head toward her with a serpentine undulation of the long neck, a hiss emanating from the open jaws. The forked tongue flickered out once, twice, then the hiss rose into a screech, and the dragon launched itself from its perch straight at her.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, the voice of reason was shrieking at her that this was not a good place to be, but the mad exhilaration that flooded through her drowned it out all too easily. She lifted sword and shield, the red haze rolling over her as she answered its battle cry with her own:

_"Come on, then!"_

She ran forward to meet it, taking it by surprise and forcing it to correct the path of its glide. She ducked under the slash of its claws and swung upward, feeling her sword bite, hearing the screech change to a bellow of pain and rage. It landed heavily, seeming almost clumsy on the ground after the deadly grace of its flight, but it whipped around with surprising speed, the jaws parting, taking in a deep breath, and then...

Fire.

Talia brought her shield up, felt the wall of flames break on its surface, washing around her, but heating up the air to an unbearable degree, all the same. She felt her skin beginning to redden and blister, saw her shield beginning to warp in the heat, and then the air cooled suddenly, magic swirling around her, healing the burns, deflecting the flames, Wynne's voice rising strong and steady.

Dimly, she was aware of the arrival of the others, but she did not even spare them a glance as she charged forward again, spinning around the wicked head as it darted out for a bite, slamming her shield into the massive skull and opening a gash in the thick hide over one shoulder with her sword.

A mighty buffet of the wings sent everyone except Shale tumbling backward, but Talia hunched her shoulders and drove forward, lashing out with Starfang again and again, staying close, using the beast's own bulk as a shield against its teeth and claws while the golem pounded at its flank. With a bellow of fury, it launched itself into the air, twisting and diving back to earth a short distance away.

Before she could close the gap again, she saw the jaw drop open, and raised her shield in anticipation of another gout of flame. Instead, the dragon shot its head out, hooking its fangs around the shield, then whipped its neck sideways in a sudden, violent motion. Agony flared white-hot down Talia's left arm, and then she was flying through the air in an arc that ended with bruising force at the foot of a marble pillar. The edifice shook with the impact, crumbled stone raining down from above to pummel the dazed Warden.

She opened her eyes, saw the dragon wheeling to face her. She shook her head, trying to clear it, tried to rise, but her shield was pinned to the ground, buried beneath a pile of rubble, and her left arm refused to obey her. Releasing her grip on her sword, she twisted, fingers finding the buckles that secured the shield in place and tugging at the leather straps, glancing over her shoulder as the dragon charged, magic exploding in the air around it, Sten and Alistair attacking from opposite flanks, trying unsuccessfully to divert its deadly intent from her, then scattering as it strafed the ground with another burst of flame. Abandoning the straps, she groped blindly for her sword, determined to take a last piece out of the damned thing.

Brego lunged in between them, hackles raised and a savage snarl rippling from his throat, and Talia felt the first stab of fear cutting through the haze like a hot knife through butter.

"No!" she shouted, lunging forward, heedless of the bolt of pain from her trapped arm. The dragon reared back to strike, then pulled up short, flinging its head skyward and roaring in pain as it clawed at the pair of arrows that had pierced its left eye. It wheeled, seeking the source of its pain, and Talia dropped her sword again, attacking the straps of her shield with a vengeance. Within seconds, she was free, her left arm hanging limp and useless at her side as she scrambled to her feet, the fingers of her right hand closing again over Starfang's hilt. The dragon was facing away from her now, thrashing its head wildly as the others attacked from all sides.

_Turn your back on me, will you?_ Talia felt a wild grin on her face as Zevran leaped in, weaving like a mongoose fighting a snake and driving both daggers into the top of one massive foot. The dragon bellowed, releasing the object that it had held in its mouth.

"Brego, take the left leg!" She ran forward, a single stroke of her sword slicing cleanly through the tendon at the back of the right hind leg. Her mabari's method was messier, but no less effective: powerful jaws locked around the tendons, head shaking and teeth shredding until the job was done. Hamstrung, the dragon sagged back onto its now useless hindquarters, wings flapping in a futile effort at flight.

Sten's war shout filled the world as he made a running leap and buried Asala in the dragon's side in a massive overhand thrust, the weight of his body dragging the blade down through flesh and bone as he fell back to the ground. The roar became a keening wail, blood sizzling in the next gout of flame that burst from its mouth. A clawed forepaw slammed into the earth next to Morrigan, who stepped back calmly, hands incandescent with power that she shaped with will and word, creating a crackling globe of pure energy that an almost negligent flick of her wrist sent flying into the maw of the beast.

The great head tipped skyward, ululating a deathknell, and Alistair struck, driving the tip of his sword deep into the exposed chest, then spinning away as the dragon gave a convulsive shudder and collapsed into a torn and bloody mountain of flesh.

Elation flared through Talia like lightning - they had done it, by the Maker! - but her fierce cry of triumph cut short when she caught sight of Alistair's face. Following his gaze, she felt her heart stop at the sight of the form crumpled at the edge of one of the steaming pools, realizing suddenly what had escaped her in the heat of battle.

The arrows that had drawn the beast's attention from her.

Wynne's voice echoing in her memory. _The others - Alistair and Leliana in particular - put themselves at risk to protect you, because you don't protect yourself._

_No._

She took a halting step forward, then another, her mouth working soundlessly.

The shape that the dragon had held in its jaws, shaking it so savagely, then hurling it away.

_Your every action will be as a drop of water into a still, clear pond. Every drop causes ripples, and ripples spread._

_No!_

Another step, feeling as though her feet were mired in mud, lips silently forming a single word, over and over, trying to deny the truth that her eyes told her.

Red hair...and blood.

_NonononoNO!_

The spell broke, and she raced the last few yards, her sword clattering to the ground as she dropped to her knees beside Leliana's limp body, her mind recoiling in horror at the catastrophic damage the dragon's teeth had done. So much blood, bright red against ashen skin, and when she tried to slide her good arm beneath the bard's shoulders, the grating of broken bones made her draw back fearfully. She

reached into the pouch at her hip, pulled out one of the few healing poultices that she carried, then stared stupidly from it to the gaping wounds that lay beneath the ruin of her friend's armor.

Alistair hit the ground beside her, face and neck red and blistered, his eyes as wild as she knew hers had to be, fingers trembling violently as he felt at Leliana's throat.

"She's alive, but only just. I can barely feel her heartbeat."

She could hardly hear him through the thundering of her own pulse in her ears. She drew a breath and found her voice, a raw cry that tore at her throat like broken glass:

_"WYNNE!"_


	22. Night On The Mountain

For most of his twenty-one years, Alistair had been accustomed to having little – if any - control over his own life, let alone anyone else's. From an orphaned bastard sleeping in the stables at Redcliffe to a ten-year-old abandoned at the Chantry by the only father he'd ever known to the decision to place him into training as a templar, things happened _to_ him, and any attempts that he made to impose his own will had been either ignored or led to punishment.

Eventually, he'd simply stopped trying to fight it and gone along with whatever was required of him. Even when Duncan had recruited him for the Grey Wardens, the choice hadn't been his. Oh, he'd been eager enough to go, if only because the Revered Mother had her knickers so plainly knotted over the idea, but if he'd not wanted to go, Duncan would have conscripted him, anyway.

Still, being in the Wardens had been something that hadn't been imposed on him by his inconvenient parentage, so it had felt different from the start, and the camaraderie of the other men, all bound together by the simple fact of having survived the Joining, had been something he had never experienced. Even there, though, he'd been content to follow, never imagining that he would abruptly find himself the most senior Grey Warden in Ferelden.

It was odd how quickly one could get used to being able to make a difference. In the months since Ostagar, they had reclaimed Soldier's Peak, saved Redcliffe from a demon and its unholy creations, cleansed the Circle Tower of an infestation of blood mages and abominations, and were now within reach of recovering one of the holiest relics in all of Thedas and saving the life of Arl Eamon.

And yet, here he stood, as helpless now as he had been when he was ten, watching Eamon ride away from the Chantry from his hiding place in the stables, where he'd fled after shouting to the Arl that he hated him. And that helplessness was maddening.

Wynne and Morrigan had been inside the hastily erected tent for hours, struggling first to keep Leliana alive and then to heal the damage that had been done. Alistair had helped Sten and Zevran set up the rest of the tents, while Shale had piled boulders over the doors that led back into the mountain, just in case they had missed any cultists on their way up, and Talia -

She hadn't said a word since that desperate cry for Wynne. She had helped Alistair move Leliana into the tent, then assisted with the setup of the rest of the camp, her movements wooden, her left arm hanging limp at her side, and her face a mess of bruises from the fight. After that was done, she had simply walked away. She'd been standing on the path for over an hour now, Brego at her side, her silent gaze shifting between the tent and the entrance to the temple above them.

_It's not your fault,_ he wanted to tell her, even though he knew it wasn't entirely true. Once Kolgrim had gotten free and summoned the dragon, they would have had to fight it regardless, but without Talia's headlong charge, they could have taken it on together, instead of spending most of their efforts keeping it off of her, and Leliana -

_She's not going to die,_ he told himself fiercely, willing it to be true. _She can't._

Women had been a mystery to him his entire life, discussed in furtive whispers after lights-out in the Chantry, more openly - and more boastfully - among the young men training as templars. He'd done his best to participate, but there was no getting around the fact that he had no experience whatsoever with females. No mother, no sister, not even aunts or cousins. The entire population of the fairer sex might as well have been on the far side of the moon, as far as he was concerned.

Now, he found himself surrounded. Wynne had become the mother he'd never had, Morrigan was- well, he wasn't sure what role the witch filled, besides serving as a constant test of his patience. Talia and Leliana, though: if he'd had sisters, they were what he would have wanted them to be like, and yet -

He loved them. He knew that much, but was it the love of a brother or something more? They were so different! Leliana, for all her worldliness, had an indefinable air of innocence about her; she could send his stomach somersaulting with a single look from those big, blue eyes, then set him at ease moments later with a smile and a kind word. Talia was the one person in Ferelden who knew - really knew - the fears and doubts that assailed him every day. He could talk to her, laugh with her; in combat, they were like two halves of a single fighter...at least, until the berserker rage overtook her. So fierce in battle, but so vulnerable at the most unexpected moments.

And he'd failed her, allowing her to take the mantle of leadership that should have been his, just because it was easier and he was afraid of failing, and she was impatient enough, brash enough to take the initiative when no one else would. She had the instincts of a good leader, but not yet the skills, and still far too much emotion storming through her. He might have botched it up royally - probably would have, in fact - but it had been his duty to try, to succeed or fail, and he had let Talia take the risk, because he was afraid to decide, to commit, to lead.

Just as he kept himself balanced in friendship between the two women that he suspected he could love, because it was easier than making himself choose between them. And now, he could very well lose them both; if Leliana died, Talia would shatter. That loss and the guilt on top of what she'd already suffered would tear her apart, and she'd be right back where she'd been at the very beginning, charging into combat hoping that she wouldn't live through it, and sooner or later she'd get what she wanted, and he'd be left to face the Blight alone, and -

"I need your help." Talia's voice, almost too low to be heard, nonetheless brought his thoughts out of their chaotic tumble. She stood beside him, her face still a wooden mask, but her dark eyes shadowed with exhaustion, grief and guilt.

"What with?" He was ready to listen, to talk, to be tough but compassionate, to make her see that she had to start _thinking_ , not just reacting.

"My arm." She said simply. "It's out of joint, and I can't get it back in place on my own. I need you to help me."

"Ah...your arm." He glanced downward at the limb, swallowing nervously. "Shouldn't you have Wynne or Morrigan take a look at it?"

She shook her head. "I know what's wrong. It happened before, when I was sparring at Highever, and Fergus helped me pop it back into place before Mother found out about it."

He winced at the word 'pop'. "Talia, I really think that you should let the mages just heal it."

She shook her head again, harder this time, her face set. "It doesn't need healing, Alistair. Once it's back in place, I'll be fine. There's no need to waste a healing spell."

"A noble sentiment." Morrigan ducked through the tent flap, regarding Talia with one brow arched sardonically. "A shame that you weren't so thrifty with our magics earlier."

Alistair felt a stab of anger as he saw Talia flinch at the barb. "Leave her alone!"

The golden eyes turned toward him with cold contempt. "Leave her alone? Coddle her? 'Tis precisely that which has landed us in the current debacle. She can be child or woman, but not both, and the time is past due for her to decide which it will be. She is no longer a noble's daughter, with lackeys scurrying behind her to clean up the messes she makes. She is a Grey Warden, will she or nil she, and if she lacks the stomach to do what is needed beyond heeding her own childish impulses, then it would be best for us all if she returns to Denerim and seeks her revenge against her family's murderer. At least then, hers would be the only life lost to her actions."

"And what do you know about it?" he demanded heatedly. "It's not like you actually give a damn about anything but yourself!"

"No, Alistair." Talia's voice was dull, flat. "She's right." She looked at the witch, fear rippling beneath the dead expression on her face. "Leliana...is she -?"

"She will live," Morrigan replied in an indifferent tone that set Alistair's teeth on edge, "but I have done all that I am able without rest. Wynne continues, and I do not recommend disturbing her."

Talia's whole body sagged, as though invisible strings that had been holding her upright had been suddenly severed, and for a moment, Alistair thought she might just collapse. He put a supporting arm around her, and she leaned into him, drawing a shaky breath before straightening and stepping away.

"Thank you," she said hoarsely. "I owe you - I - " She broke off, shaking her head, then continuing in a steadier voice. "If there is anything that I can do for you, you have only to ask."

_Don't say that!_ He came within a heartbeat of shouting it.

The golden eyes narrowed, watching the Warden for a long moment, and Alistair felt his heart sink, but Morrigan only said, "Avoiding a repetition of this day's events would be a good start. Now, come with me and we will see about your shoulder. I do not intend to 'waste' my magic," she added as Talia began to protest. "I've none to waste at the moment, but I do know something about dealing with such injuries. It will require removing your armor, however. You stay here." She fixed Alistair with a forbidding expression as he started to follow. "I do not require your aid, and have no wish to deal with you, should you faint."

Talia glanced back at him with a one-sided shrug and a faint nod,then turned to trail after the witch as she headed for her own tent. He remained where he was, despite the instinct that whispered to him that leaving Talia alone with Morrigan right now was not a good thing.

* * *

Morrigan was pleased to note that the others had honored her custom, setting up her tent as close to its usual distance from the rest of the camp as safety and circumstance permitted, near the edge of one of the steaming pools. Unlike the others, she found the scent of the sulfur that permeated the waters not at all unpleasant, and fully intended to avail herself of the restorative qualities to be found in the hot springs...once she had concluded her business here.

Talia followed her, as mute as the stone that surrounded them, stopping when she stopped and standing listless, making no move to remove her armor. Morrigan fought down a wave of irritation; this was what came of giving a damn about others. The fool of a failed templar and the Chantry wench had endangered themselves, not because Talia was one of two surviving Grey Wardens in Ferelden, but because they cared about her. Had they been thinking clearly, they could have used the dragon's distraction with her bold attack and taken it down before it had realized they were there. And now, worry and guilt over that idiot bard's fate threatened to drag Talia back down into the utter recklessness that had consumed her when they had first met.

Morrigan needed Talia alive. Needed both the Grey Wardens alive; as much as it galled her to consider it, Alistair was vital to her plans, which meant that she couldn't have him getting killed trying to protect Talia. She could not seem to curb this infectious and self-destructive impulse toward caring, so she would have to try to use it to her advantage.

"Do you expect that your armor will detach itself from you of its own volition?" she demanded tartly. Talia looked up at her in surprise and mumbled an apology, her right hand coming up to fumble with the straps. It soon became evident that, between her injury and the dents in the plate, she would not be able to complete the task on her own, so Morrigan stepped in to assist her, grumbling to herself at the stench of steel and sweat. And the weight of it! She grunted with surprise as the breastplate came loose and narrowly avoided dropping it on her own toes. That had to be part of it, she was certain: the weight of all that metal impeded the flow of blood to the brain.

At last, all the armor lay in a heap to one side, the padded gambeson draped atop it, and the Warden stood before her in the lightweight linen tunic and trews that she wore beneath her armor. "Now, I believe that I heard you say this has happened to you before; how was it corrected then?"

"I lay down on my back, Fergus put one foot in the middle of my chest and pulled up on my arm. Hard."

Morrigan nodded. Yes, that was one way of doing it, and would likely be the best way in this situation. "You do realize that it is likely to be quite painful to replace it?" An indifferent shrug from the right shoulder. No doubt, she thought of the pain as penance. Foolishness, but if guilt was what it took to herd her in the needed direction, Morrigan would use the tools that were given to her.

"Lie down, then," she ordered, waiting for the Warden to comply, then placing a leather-booted foot directly over the her sternum and lifting the left arm, feeling the oddly directionless motion of the shoulder. Talia stared upward, the rising quarter moon reflecting in the dark night of her eyes, her jaw set. Morrigan grasped her wrist with one hand, sliding the other down to encircle the arm just above the elbow and readied herself, synchronizing her breath with Talia's.

She met the Warden's eyes. "Do it," Talia ordered tersely, and Morrigan simultaneously pressed down the foot on Talia's chest and pulled sharply on the arm with all her strength, feeling the joint resist, then slide and snap back into proper alignment. Talia's body tensed, her eyes going wide and a grunting hiss escaping from between clenched teeth. After a long moment, a rolling shudder passed through her, the taut muscles relaxed and she sat up, slowly working the arm through its range of motion.

"Thank you," she said quietly, pushing herself to her feet.

Morrigan nodded, watching her closely, evaluating her mood. "So...a life for a life; does that seem a fair trade?"

Talia returned her gaze calmly, showing no real surprise at her words. "A life taken, or a life saved?"

"The one will accomplish the other, actually." The witch turned away, walking with studied casualness to a large stone beside her tent and seating herself upon it. The heat from the pools meant that fires were not needed...which was fortunate, as the only wood to be found on this barren expanse of rock came from the shattered chests of the dragon's hoard. "In reading Mother's grimoire, I have made a rather - unsettling - discovery."

"Unsettling to _you_?" Talia followed, settling upon a smaller stone. "How so?"

"Twas not what I expected to find," Morrigan admitted, unsure suddenly how to best proceed to ensure the Warden's cooperation. The fear that had been twisting within her like a restless serpent in the days since she had finally deduced the full purpose of Flemeth's stolen tome was as real as it was unwelcome, but to show it might well be interpreted by Talia as pretense for the purpose of manipulation.

On the other hand, if she approached the issue with her usual mien, the urgency of the matter might be lost. She needed Talia in a way that she had never anticipated when she had first set out with her from the Korcari Wilds, and this sudden shift in power was almost as unsettling as the discovery that was the cause of it. The bard's injury was quite fortuitous in its timing. "I thought to find a tome of Flemeth's more powerful spells; instead, I have learned the secret of her lengthy lifespan."

"And?" Talia watched her expectantly.

"You have asked me before about Flemeth's other daughters," Morrigan continued, "and as I told you, though legends of them abound, I had never seen any sign of one, and Flemeth never responded to my questions. I have finally found the proof of their existence, however." She reached into her pack, withdrew the tome, its black leather cover adorned with a single tree, withered and barren. "They are all in here," she said, touching the cover, "all the way back to the first."

"She killed them?" Talia guessed, eyes narrowing slightly.

"In a manner of speaking, yes...and no." As she drew closer to the heart of the matter, Morrigan could feel the unwanted emotion rising, threatening to spill over. "Flemeth's magic, the magic of the demon that is within her, is powerful, and can extend a life far beyond the usual years, but it cannot do so indefinitely. When she felt that power beginning to wane, she acquired a daughter."

"Acquired?" Talia's focus was on her completely now, all else pushed aside as her mind absorbed everything that the witch was saying.

"Though she sates her appetites with Chasind men - and the occasional templar, I do not believe that she is capable of conceiving a child. Instead, she stole girl children: from the Chasind, from the villages that bordered the Wilds, even from further afield, on occasion. The tome goes into great detail about the selection of each one, the search for the right combination of the promise of physical beauty, strength, intelligence and magical aptitude." She felt her lips twist into a bitter smile. "I suppose I should feel honored to have met her exacting standards."

"You do fit the bill quite nicely," Talia agreed, though there was the beginning of a sympathy in her eyes that Morrigan both counted on and dreaded. "What happened then?"

"She raised them, trained them, and when the time was right, she took their bodies as her own, leaving behind the aging shell of her previous body." She drew in a breath, hating the quivering that she could not seem to will away. "That is my purpose, my sole reason for being. I...am to be her next host!" It hurt, and she hated that it hurt. Despite that insipid dream, she had never held any illusions that Flemeth might someday reveal herself to be a loving and nurturing mother. The training in survival that her - that Flemeth had given her had been of far more value than any sentimental claptrap, but to realize that it had all been done in the interest of preparing and preserving a vessel, that she had never been anything more...

"I'm sorry, Morrigan," Talia said quietly, and those words stung worse than if the Warden had laughed at her, ridiculed her, berated her for her blind stupidity.

"Do not be," the witch replied sharply. "She seeks only to survive, as do we all, but she taught me to survive, as well, and I have no intention of meekly submitting to her intent."

"I don't understand, though," Talia went on, her brow creased in puzzlement. "If she needs your body for herself, why send you with us? She had to know how dangerous it would be; anything could happen."

_Careful, now._ She knew full well why Flemeth had taken the risk, but to reveal that knowledge before the right time could jeopardize everything. "I admit that I do not fully understand this myself," she said, putting a convincing note of bafflement into her voice. "The grimoire does make it clear that the stronger the - host," she did not have to feign the stumble over that hated word, "the stronger Flemeth will be when she claims it. It may be that she believed that my experiences would increase my power, making me a more suitable host when the time comes for her to claim me. Perhaps I should take it as a vote of confidence in my abilities?"

"Maybe you're stronger than she thinks," Talia suggested, "and you're not alone. If she tries to take you, she'll have to fight us."

And she was right. Even that fool, Alistair, would defend her if Flemeth were to make such an attempt openly, but that was not the crone's way. "That would likely play directly into her plans. If she dies while I am anywhere near her, it is entirely possible that her spirit - and that of the demon - could claim my body, and there would be nothing that you or anyone else could do to prevent it. She must die," Morrigan said, her eyes holding Talia's, "but I cannot be present when it occurs."

"So, you want me to kill Flemeth for you." Talia cocked her head, her expression impassive, considering. "Can she even be killed?"

"Her body can." Morrigan found herself a bit unsettled by the Warden's measured reaction. "It will take some time for her spirit to find and claim a suitable host: time that I can use to better prepare myself against her."

"I won't be able to do it alone," Talia said, "and you know that. You expect me to risk the lives of the others for this?" Her eyes, suddenly as hard and sharp as the shards of obsidian that lay scattered among the stones around them, were locked onto Morrigan's face, reminding her of her earlier words, challenging her.

"I expect that you will do whatever you will," the witch countered calmly, "but I would hope, should you decide to aid me, that you would formulate a coherent plan of battle, rather than rushing in blindly. She can be killed, and 'tis well within your ability to do so, if you fight with your mind, as well as your sword. And I would ask no one to aid you who does not wish to." Being beholden to Alistair would be an ignominy that would almost make her intended fate seem preferable, but survival was the first imperative, no matter how it was achieved.

Movement from the main camp caught their attention: Wynne emerging from Leliana's tent, her weariness plain, even at a distance. Give the old woman her due: she had a strength of will that her pious platitudes barely hinted at, and considerably more power at her command than Morrigan, though she would never dream of using it as she by all rights should.

Talia was on her feet in an instant, then paused, turning back to Morrigan. "I'll do it," she said simply, "when the time is right, but I'm only taking volunteers with me. You've saved my life enough times that I owe you that much, but I won't do it as repayment for Leliana." She stared into Morrigan's eyes, her face set into harsh planes of understanding. "I won't let you use her like that."

And she was gone, leaving Morrigan to stare thoughtfully after her.

* * *

"What do you suppose they were discussing?" Zevran asked, watching Talia stride away from the witch and toward Wynne and Alistair.

"Should I care?" Sten replied, tearing off another strip of dried beef, not even bothering to look around.

"You have no taste for intrigue, my large friend," the Antivan chided him. "The events of today could well influence the structure of our merry little band, could they not?"

"Perhaps."

"Misers could learn from your way with words," Zevran marveled. "Have you no opinion at all on the matter?"

"That is not what you asked me."

"True." the elf conceded. "A direct question, then: do you think that Alistair would be a better leader in this venture than Talia?"

"I would be the best to lead," Sten replied flatly, "but the Fereldans would not accept a qunari in such a position. The Grey Wardens must lead against the Blight, and decisiveness is preferable to hesitation. The other Warden lacks the will to lead. The _Kadan_ has the will, and if she lives long enough to outgrow her recklessness, she will become a strong leader, in spite of being a woman."

"I believe that is more words that I have heard you speak at once since we first met," Zevran remarked. "And if Talia does not survive, or relinquishes her leadership to Alistair? Her confidence has taken quite a bruising, I think."

"Bruises heal," the qunari stated, "and it is useless to dwell upon multiple possibilities that have not occurred. Focus should be upon what is real."

"A refreshingly practical viewpoint," the elf said. "For myself, my oath of service was given to Talia. I am her man, and if she chooses to follow Alistair, I will follow her."

"I don't recall asking for your opinion on the matter."

"Being the generous fellow that I am, I decided to share it anyway," Zevran replied cheerfully. "And what of you, Shale? Would you prefer to follow Talia or Alistair in this endeavor?"

"Both options seem equally ill-fated," the golem intoned. "I suspect that you shall all wind up in the gullet of the Archdemon, if you even last that long. Still, the Warden who leads now keeps things interesting. I suspect that the other one would be very dull to follow about."

" _Parshaara_ ," Sten growled. "Gossip is the pastime of old women and fools."

"Perhaps," Zevran conceded, his eyes going back to Talia, "but since none of those were about, I simply thought to fill the void."

* * *

"It will take a few more days for her to recover fully," Wynne told Alistair. "The healing is not complete, but I'll need to rest before I can do any more." She could feel every one of her years weighing upon her, all the heavier for knowing that one more task still lay before her.

"But she'll be all right?" Alistair asked again, and she could see the question echoed in Talia's eyes as the other Warden joined them. "Can we go in to see her?"

"Yes, she will be all right," she assured him for the third time. "She's awake right now, but she needs rest. You can go in to see her, but you are to make sure she stays calm. And you," she stopped Talia with a finger in the middle of her chest as she moved to follow Alistair, "I will speak with alone, right now."

Talia swallowed once and nodded meekly. Alistair looked ready to protest, but obviously thought better of it, simply laying a hand on Talia's shoulder before allowing her to follow the mage away from the tent. Wynne's own tent had been set up, but it was too close to the rest of the group, so she angled down the slope to the ruins where they had found the dragon's hoard, picking her way carefully among the loose stones. She lowered herself carefully onto a fallen slab of marble, and Talia knelt before her, looking very small and young and lost.

No. She couldn't afford such thoughts. Not now.

"Thank you, Wynne," Talia began in an unsteady voice. "I don't know how I can even begin to repay you, but if -"

She got no further, for Wynne steeled herself and delivered a slap that rocked the Warden's head on her shoulders.

_Maker, forgive me, but I must do this._ It was a duty that had fallen to her only a handful of times over the years, and it had hurt her each time. A transgression of this magnitude in the Circle would have resulted in serious talk of the Tranquil, and if Wynne managed to dissuade the other senior mages from that course, it would be left to her to drive home the lesson: not bone deep, but soul deep, with the knowledge that there would be no further chances, no forgiveness. She had to be harsh, not only for Talia's sake, but for the sake of them all, and of Ferelden.

"How dare you?" She kept her voice low enough that it wouldn't carry, but she could see each word strike Talia with the force of another blow. "Do you think that I healed that girl for your repayment? If you owe anyone anything, it is Leliana; she is the one that your careless disregard almost got killed!"

"I'm sorry," Talia whispered, shaking her head slowly, her face caught between remorse and despair. "I didn't mean -"

"Sorry?" Wynne demanded, her voice hard, her heart aching. "Do you really think 'sorry' can fix what was done? Her ribs were crushed, her lungs torn, her liver punctured. It was by the Maker's grace alone that her spine was undamaged, but she fractured her skull when it flung her away."

Talia buried her face in her hands, a raw, wretched sound twisting from deep in her chest, and when she raised her head, her cheeks were wet with the first tears that the mage had ever seen her shed. "What do you want me to do?" she demanded hoarsely. "I can't undo what happened, any more than I can change what happened at -"

"Highever was not your fault." Wynne spoke slowly, deliberately, enunciating every word. "Killing Rendon Howe will not bring back those you have lost, and continuing to wallow in guilt over it will only distract you from the duty that you have to those who follow you and to Ferelden. What happened to Leliana today _was_ your fault, and had she died, that would have been on your head, as well. Was that worth allowing yourself to lose control?"

"No!" The word came out in a choked sob. "How can I -"

"Stop it from happening?" Wynne cocked her head, keeping her expression implacable. "Every time you feel it, every time you are tempted to give in, remember how she looked when you found her: the blood, the broken bones, all of it. Then remember that the next time, we might not be able to save her. Or Alistair, or Sten, or whoever it is that pays the price the next time. Because there will only be a next time if you permit it. You are the only one who has that power over yourself. No one else can do it for you."

She walked a delicate line now: push too hard, and the young woman before her would break. It had happened once before: an apprentice who could summon fire as easily as the average person breathed had walked calmly away from a session much like this one and immolated herself in her quarters. No one had blamed Wynne; the girl had critically burned one of her instructors and three other apprentices two days earlier by ignoring instruction on how to properly channel her power. But Wynne had never forgotten that moment when the light had gone out of the girl's eyes, though she hadn't realized what it meant until the screams began to ring out from the apprentices' rooms. More than anything now, she feared seeing that light leave Talia's eyes.

Talia's head was bowed again, her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists in her lap, shoulders trembling and breath coming in ragged gasps. Wynne waited in silence, watching as the tremors eased and stilled, watching as a Grey Warden lifted her head to meet her gaze, eyes bright with sorrow, steely with resolve. She had seen that look before, as well, and her heart lifted to see it now.

"It will not happen again." Not a child's tearful promise, but a Warden's oath, her voice level and tightly controlled.

Wynne nodded, allowing herself a silent prayer of thanks. There would undoubtedly be more stumbles, but she could dare to hope that the worst was past. "Good. Now, I think it would do Leliana good to see you."

Talia looked dubious, almost fearful at the notion. "I don't know if I should."

"She was most worried about you," Wynne reminded her, allowing gentleness back into her voice once more. "It would settle her mind to know that you are well."

Talia nodded slowly, chewing nervously at her lower lip. "I'll do it, then."

Wynne watched her go, wondering if Talia would come to hate her for her words this night. Some of the others had, though time had frequently mellowed their hostility. Time was no longer a thing that she had an abundance of, however, and she might have to content herself with knowing that she had done her duty, as cold a comfort as that might be when a child that you loved as your own treated you as an enemy.

She made her way wearily back to the camp, graciously declining Zevran's offer of food, and most grateful that he - for once - did not attempt to turn the conversation into some manner of lechery. Only when she was safely within the walls of her tent did she allow the bitter tears to fall.

* * *

Keeping Leliana calm was turning out to be easier said than done.

"What is she talking to her about?" she demanded for the third time, shifting restlessly on her pallet, face still far too pale in the flickering candlelight.

"She's just getting a lecture, Leli," Alistair assured her, again for the third time, although the look on Wynne's face as she'd hauled Talia off had not boded well for the content of the conversation.

"But, Alistair, she tried so hard!" The bard's face was twisted in distress, made all the more unsettling by the bruises that still covered it, and the blood-red stain that all but obscured the orb of her left eye. "She fought it all the way through, right up to the end -"

"At which point, she attacked a dragon single-handedly," he reminded her as gently as possible, a part of his mind still back at the top of that path, staring in horror and stunned disbelief. "That kind of thing will get her killed, if she keeps it up. It almost got you killed."

"Don't you ever say that to her!" Leliana glared at him. "And if that is what Wynne is telling her, I'll -"

"It's the truth," Talia said quietly as she slipped into the tent. Her eyes went immediately to the bard's face; she drew in a harsh breath and turned away abruptly.

"You hardly look ready for a grand ball, yourself," Leliana retorted, relief washing over her features all the same. "Now, stop that and come here."

Talia approached hesitantly and knelt beside her, opposite Alistair. Her hand came out, brushing gingerly over the bruises that marred the fair skin of the Orlesian's face. "I'm sorry," she whispered, closing her eyes, and the Templar was startled to realize that her lashes were wet with tears, her cheeks damp with their tracks. Talia...crying? "Maker, I'm so sorry..."

"Don't." Leliana silenced her with a finger to her lips, her other hand pressing Talia's palm to her cheek. "And don't cry, silly. I'll be fine; even Morrigan says so. But what about you? Your arm...does it hurt?" Her hand dropped to Talia's left shoulder, the touch light and careful.

Talia shook her head, wiping the tears from her face and shooting a glare at Alistair. "Do me a favor and learn how to lie," she grumbled.

"To her?" Alistair pointed at the bard, feigning astonishment. "You're joking, right?"

Leliana giggled, then winced. "He's right, you know. He did try, but he never had a chance." A glint appeared in the blue eyes beneath a sudden wash of tears. "And if you ever attempt an idiotic stunt like that again -"

"I won't," Talia told her, brushing the tears from the bard's cheeks with the back of her hand. "I already promised Wynne."

"Promise _me_ ," she insisted fiercely, capturing Talia's hand in her own. "Promise!"

"I promise," Talia said earnestly, giving Alistair a worried look. "I promise."

"She promises," he repeated. "Now will you please calm down before Wynne comes in and beats us both about the head and shoulders? You're supposed to be resting."

"And you're not one to be complaining about idiotic stunts, anyway," Talia reminded her pointedly. "Shooting a dragon in the eye?"

"I wasn't about to let it have you," Leliana replied, an odd smile curving her lips as she added, "You know, the Antivans believe that if you save someone's life, that person belongs to you."

"Well, that explains why I now have an assassin following me around," Talia murmured, eying her quizzically, "but I'm not Antivan, and neither are you."

"No." The smile turned coy. "But I've always wanted a Warden of my own." She twined a lock of Talia's hair around a finger as said Warden turned a baffled gaze to Alistair.

"What is she -"

"They gave her something for the pain," he replied. "I think it's starting to kick in." That was likely part of it, but not all, and looking between their faces, he felt a sudden bittersweet relief at the realization that he wasn't going to have to choose between them,after all. A choice had already been made, and while Talia didn't seem aware of it yet, it would only be a matter of time.

"All right, then," Talia agreed amiably, executing a passable bow from her kneeling position. "I'm all yours. What do you wish of me, m'lady?"

The blue eyes cut back to Alistair with a wicked gleam that immediately sent a blush all the way to the roots of his hair, but the look she gave Talia was one of gentle amusement. "Just stay with me while I sleep, my Warden," she asked softly. "I suspect those teeth will be haunting my dreams."

Which was odd, since she'd told Alistair that she couldn't remember anything that had happened after she fired the arrows, but he had a feeling that it would be best if he didn't mention that particular fact.

Talia just nodded, shifting to sit cross-legged beside Leliana as the bard let her fingers slip from the Warden's hair to reclaim her hand, tucking it against her cheek with a sleepy but contented smile that sent a wistful twinge through his chest. It wasn't jealousy, really, or even envy, just -

"You're not staying, too?" Talia asked as he pushed himself to his feet.

He shook his head. "Thought I'd make sure the rest of the camp was secure and see that Wynne eats something," he told her.

A troubled look flitted across her face. "Tell her that I understand why she did what she did, and I'm grateful," she said quietly. "I'll tell her myself tomorrow, but I think she probably needs to hear it now."

"I'll do that," he promised, stepping from the tent and staring up at the moon, wondering how he could feel so melancholy and so oddly pleased at the same time.

"If you are in search of gainful employment, you may begin by moving this stinking pile away from my tent," Morrigan called to him, gesturing toward Talia's armor. "Tis a marvel that the smell alone did not slay the dragon."

An odd mix of emotion, indeed, but one that he found he rather liked, and he decided that he wasn't going to let the witch rob him of it. "Oh, you never know," he replied cheerfully as he moved to comply with her demand. "Maybe they actually like the smell."


	23. The Gauntlet

"I bid you welcome, pilgrim."

Talia approached the man cautiously, staring around the large, low-ceilinged room. After so much fighting to get to this point, to find only a single sentinel awaiting them defied her expectations...and made her very suspicious. There were no other guards in evidence, however, and the one who had spoken didn't seem hostile – yet – so she closed the final distance between them, feeling the others behind her, knowing that they were as alert as she was.

"Greetings," she offered with a formal bow as she sheathed her sword, deciding to meet courtesy with courtesy. "I am Talia Cousland, of the Grey Wardens, and these are my companions."

"Yes." The eyes, a startlingly light shade of blue that made them seem almost luminescent, moved to each of them in turn, and each received a grave nod of greeting. "I am the Guardian, the protector of the Urn of Sacred Ashes. I have waited years for this."

"For us?" Talia regarded him in confusion. "Are you from Haven?" And did he know that they had depopulated the village and the temple below?

He shook his head, his eyes growing sad. "They are the descendants of those who came here with me, bringing the remains of the Prophet to their final resting place. Long did their children, and their children's children, guard this holy mountain in faith and joy, but their own faith wavered, and they turned to a false idol."

"The dragon?"

He nodded sadly. "True faith needs no ostentatious display, but time weakens many things; the appearance of such a powerful creature was taken by them as a sign, and the cult of worship grew over the centuries."

Talia looked at him closely. His face bore only faint lines; he appeared no older than her father had been, but his eyes... "How long did you say you had been here?"

"I am the last of those who brought the ashes of Andraste to this place, and here I abide, awaiting the fall of the Tevinter Imperium and the pilgrimage of the faithful."

She heard Leliana gasp behind her. "You...knew Andraste?"

A faint smile touched his lips. "As well as any mortal could know the Prophet. She was the Maker's bride, and she would frequently commune with Him in silent solitude for weeks at a time, never sleeping and taking neither food nor water."

Talia exchanged a cautious glance with Alistair. If he wasn't crazy, and he wasn't lying... "How is it that the others – the cult – let you alone? Their leader said that they couldn't reach the ashes; they wanted to destroy them."

"Which is why they could not pass," he replied in that gentle voice. "This place is holy, and cannot be defiled by such dark intent."

"Yes," Wynne said softly. "I can feel the magic around us, stronger than anything I have ever encountered."

"Which begs the question of why Morrigan isn't already a pile of ash on the floor," Alistair quipped.

"Possibly the wards are based upon intelligence, rather than disposition," the witch drawled. "In which case, I would advise against allowing Alistair to advance any further."

"Enough, you two," Talia sighed, for what had to be the millionth time since they had left Flemeth's hut. "And...well, you...don't have to worry about the cult anymore," she told the Guardian awkwardly. "Or the dragon, either. The Imperium is greatly weakened, as well...although we didn't do that part."

"I know," he said simply, a shadow of regret passing over his features. "It is good to know that the dragon will deceive no more, and though I grieve the loss of those who were once my brethren, if the Imperium is truly fading, then their purpose fades along with it, and I dare to hope that my own vigil is near an end, as well. You are the first to have come this far in many centuries, but your journey is not yet complete. You have come to honor Andraste, and you shall, if you prove yourself worthy."

_Worthy?_ It had taken the mages two days to completely heal Leliana and the rest of the group from the injuries that her recklessness had caused. The bard was still alarmingly weak, her fair skin almost translucent, but their water supply was almost half gone, and that in the stinking pools was undrinkable. They could linger no longer. _Me, worthy?_ "We seek the Ashes to help a good man who is gravely ill," she admitted to the Guardian, hoping that such intent would not be considered blasphemous. "We need his aid to help us against the Blight."

"I have felt the stirrings of the darkspawn," he replied gravely, " but the worthiness of your quest is not for me to decide. If you pass through the Gauntlet, you will be brought into the presence of the Urn, and will be permitted to take a pinch of the ashes for your purpose."

"The Gauntlet?" Talia swallowed. That sounded ominous, and Leliana could barely walk unaided, let alone fight...

"This is a place of peace," the Guardian said, as though he could read her thoughts. "Violence will be found only if you bring it with you."

Her own laugh sounded harsh and nearly hysterical in her ears. "That's something of a specialty of mine." Fear twisted in her gut, blood and rage and death in her memory. What business did she have in this holy place? "Maybe one of the others should -"

"No." His reply was gentle but firm. "You are the one who seeks. You need not go alone, but only those of the faith may accompany you past this point."

Those of the faith. She turned around, her eyes falling on Alistair and Wynne and -

"You?" She arched a skeptical brow at Zevran as the elf stepped forward.

He gave her a cocky grin. "How else do you think I have survived this long, if not by divine intervention?"

She glanced back at the Guardian, who simply nodded with what looked suspiciously like a smile. "Faith is all that is required," he confirmed.

"That leaves me out, then," Morrigan announced, crossing her arms and glaring defiantly at the Guardian.

"I know," Talia said, mentally adding Sten, Shale and Brego to the list of those who would remain here with -

"Don't you even think about it!" She abruptly found herself nose to nose with the bard, who had to stand on tiptoe to accomplish the feat. The crystalline blue eyes were ablaze with indignation. "If I have to crawl, I will, but I am _not_ staying behind!" She swayed suddenly, and Talia caught her as she fell forward. "Please," she whispered, leaning into the Warden for support, her body trembling with exhaustion. "Please let me do this."

It was insane; the bard's armor had been utterly ruined in the attack, leaving her clad in a lightweight leather jerkin and trews that looked as though they'd been borrowed from an older brother and yet, when Talia's questing eyes found Wynne, the mage gave her a grave nod.

"All right," she said at last, drawing back until she was looking into Leliana's eyes, "but you have to swear to me that if it gets dangerous and I tell you to go, you'll come back here without arguing. Swear it."

Those eyes shone up at her with joy and a trust that she did not deserve. "I swear it," Leliana told her. "If you tell me to come back, I will do it without arguing."

She didn't understand it. Leliana had nearly died because of her, and yet, for the past two days, the Orlesian had seemed almost afraid to let Talia out of her sight. They would talk - about Highever, Orlais, the Chantry, each staying carefully away from the most painful subjects, until Leliana drifted off to sleep. She refused to talk about the nightmares that brought her awake in tears, only clung to Talia until the sobs tapered off and she slept again. Alistair had taken turns staying with her, and she had seemed glad enough for his company, but each time Talia entered the tent, she found those eyes turned toward her, the full lips curved into a smile that always managed to bring an answering smile to Talia's face.

"I'll go first," She told them. "Then Zev, Leliana and Wynne. Alistair, you've got rear guard." The other Warden nodded, and then gave her a questioning look that she understood well. She nodded back: yes, she was putting the Antivan directly behind her, nor, from the smile on the elf's face, had he missed her shortening of his name for the first time.

_Zev, to my friends._

She might not be ready to call him 'friend' just yet, but it had been his bold attack that had goaded the dragon into releasing Leliana. That counted for something, as far as Talia was concerned.

"We'll be back as soon as we can," she told those who would remain behind. "Keep an eye on the way out; if we're going to have to fight our way back down the mountain, I'd like to know it before we leave."

"Any other obvious instructions?" Morrigan inquired with a roll of her eyes.

"Try not to piss him off," she replied with a smirk, tilting her head toward the Guardian. "I suspect he could wipe out the lot of us without breaking a sweat."

She led them through the great arched doors, down a short hallway and into another room, long and lined with columned alcoves, and within each alcove -

"Maker's breath," she whispered. She didn't need the translucency of the figures that stood so silently, or the faint glow that emanated from them to tell her that she was in the presence of the supernatural. "It's like Soldier's Peak," she said in a low voice, glancing over her shoulder at Alistair and Leliana, who nodded in wide-eyed agreement, "but who are they?"

"I suspect that the best way to determine that would be to ask them," Zevran suggested. "I also suspect that the doors at the far end will not open until we have satisfied their purpose...whatever it is."

Talia nodded, taking a deep breath and approaching the first spirit: that of a young woman who looked to be close to her own age. "Greetings," she offered with a slight bow. "I am-"

The eyes turned toward her, the face impassive. "The smallest lark could carry it, while a strong man might not."

Talia blinked. "Excuse me?" The shade repeated the words without changing expression.

"A riddle, I think," Zevran informed her helpfully. "Not my strong suit, though if one of them needs to be bedded..."

"A tune," Leliana spoke up confidently.

A faint smile of approval appeared. "Yes. I am Ealisay. I was Andraste's dearest friend in childhood, and always we would sing. She celebrated the beauty in life, and all who heard her would be filled with joy. They say The Maker himself was moved by Andraste's song, and then she sang no more of simple things."

Her form faded to mist, swirling around them and seemingly _through_ them, and suddenly Talia could feel it: the joy of friendship, the wonder of the Maker's choice and the wistful ache of loss.

She drew a deep breath, then another, feeling the shared memories winding themselves into her soul. "Did you -?"

"Yes," Leliana confirmed, her expression filled with awe as she stepped past the elf and slipped her hand into Talia's. The faces of the others made it plain that they had experienced the same sensations. "Unless one of them needs to be bedded, I think you'll be better off with my help," she added with a smug smile in Zevran's direction. The elf smiled back and dipped a flourishing bow to the bard as she led the Warden to the next spirit. Riddle by riddle, bit by bit, the story of the Prophet was revealed to them: courage and faith, betrayal and redemption, told by those who had known her in life.

"Incredible," Wynne breathed as the last spirit swirled into nothingness and the massive doors swung open. "We have been given a gift beyond price this day."

Talia nodded wordlessly, her mind still awash with memories and emotions not her own: Brona's hope, Vasilia's implacable vengeance, Maferath's jealousy, Hessarian's mercy and repentance. All of it inspired by one woman.

"Are you all right?" she asked Leliana worriedly. The bard's quick mind had been invaluable in answering the riddles posed by the spirits, but she was paler than ever now, leaning heavily against Talia.

"I'm fine," she said with a smile, her face shining with wonder, but when she tried to stand on her own, her knees buckled beneath her.

"Alistair!" Talia called out, catching the bard before she could fall.

"Don't make me go back," Leliana pleaded with her as she lifted her into her arms, cradling her carefully.

"I said I wouldn't," Talia replied. "Alistair, carry her."

He accepted the bard, holding her easily, but looked dubious. "What if we get attacked?"

Talia quirked a grin at him. "I'd suggest putting her down before you join in." It was more than the assurances of the Guardian that allowed her to respond so easily: an aura of peace and stillness permeated the very air of this place, and when she turned a cautious eye to Wynne, suddenly worried that she was being lulled into recklessness, the mage nodded her approval once more.

Relief washed through her. Once the initial panic over Leliana's injuries had been relieved, the knowledge that she had disappointed Wynne had been nearly as painful. She'd been afraid to face the mage the next morning, but she'd found Wynne almost as remorseful as she was, though she remained adamant as to the necessity of her words and actions.

As well she might.

Stepping through the doors, Talia led the others down another hallway, not overly surprised to see another ghostly form awaiting them, at least not until the figure turned -

"P-Papa?" Talia felt her knees weaken. A wave of disbelief and joy was quickly followed by grief and anger. "He's dead," she told the apparition flatly, clamping down on the wild surge of emotion. "Why are you doing this?"

"I _am_ dead, Pup," the spirit told her gently, "but the Fade is close here, and my child needs me."

She stared at him. It was him...his face, his voice, his bearing. "Papa, I'm sorry," she choked out. "I didn't want to leave you! I wanted to stay and fight with Mother, but Duncan made me -"

"And you were right to go with him," he replied. "You could not have saved us. Your duty was to escape, to carry word of Howe's treachery so that justice might be done. Justice," he repeated, the brown eyes that she had inherited watching her, both stern and loving, "not revenge. Your duty is a different one now, and the road that lies before you is still long. You must let go of the guilt, the pain, the anger, and focus on your duty to Ferelden. The Maker will visit His own justice upon Howe, if it does not come in this life, but it falls to the Grey Wardens to face the Blight. To you. All else is secondary to this."

She swallowed, squared her shoulders. From her earliest years, his approval had been the one thing that she had valued and sought above all else. "Yes, Father."

His smile broke her heart. "I wondered at Duncan's choice, but I saw you with a father's eyes. He chose wisely." His hand lifted to her cheek, and she felt the faintest hint of a caress, closing her eyes and leaning into it desperately. "I am proud of you, my precious daughter," he whispered, "and I love you."

"I love you, Papa." The touch vanished, and when she opened her eyes, he was gone.

She stared at the empty space that he had occupied until a gentle hand fell on her shoulder and she turned to meet Wynne's sympathetic eyes. The mage said nothing, though her expression spoke volumes. Talia nodded, covering the thin hand with her own as she looked past Wynne to the others. Zevran was studiously examining the far wall, his face unreadable, but both Alistair and Leliana watched her with concern.

"I wish he could have met you," she said softly. "All of you."

The hallway turned again, and yet again, statues of Andraste gracing the walls at intervals, not a trace of dust or cobwebs to be seen. Another arching doorway, this one without a door, the room beyond filled with a gray fog. She still felt no sense of danger, but the situation dictated caution, at the very least. Signaling to the others to remain where they were, she advanced carefully, one hand on the hilt of her sword, and stepped through the doorway into the larder at Highever.

She froze and spun back around, but the arched doorway was gone; in its place stood the crates that hid the opening to the escape tunnel, the one that she, Brego and Duncan had taken that night.

And speaking of Duncan...

"What's going on?" she asked the Warden, who stood beside her, his hazel eyes watching her gravely. "Where are the others?"

"They are safe," he told her, "and what is happening is something that must occur. Watch."

She stared at him a moment longer, remembering the doppelganger that the sloth demon had created in Alistair's dream, then turned her eyes back to the larder. There was no indication that this was a vision: when she reached out a hand to one of the burlap sacks stacked nearby, she could feel the lumps of potatoes within the rough fabric, smell the faint odor of dirt and the more aromatic scent of dried herbs...all overwhelmed by the stench of her father's blood and ruptured guts.

He lay just where she had last seen him that night, her mother kneeling at his side, heedless of the spreading pool of crimson that was staining the leggings of her armor. Neither seemed aware of the presence of their daughter or Duncan, though both of them looked as solid, as real as the rest of the room.

"They're away, Bryce," Eleanor Cousland soothed her husband, her fingers brushing his hair away from his forehead, "and with the doorway hidden, they'll get a good head start on any pursuit that bastard tries to send after them."

"You should have gone with them, Eleanor." Her father's face was pale, twisted with pain, anger and grief.

"No!" She shook her head vehemently. "My place is at your side, unto death and beyond." Shouts rose suddenly on the opposite side of the door, and a moment later, it shook on its hinges. It was not on a whim that the escape route had been placed here; the door was stout, and a heavy oaken bar further reinforced it, but it would not hold forever.

Her mother's face hardened, her eyes glinting like emeralds in the shadows of the room. Fergus had inherited her eyes, Talia remembered distractedly, trying to deny what she knew was about to happen. Fergus and Oren. "And every one of the bastards that I kill is one less to go after my daughter," Eleanor announced grimly, her hands going to the sword and axe that she had allowed to drop.

A half dozen violent blows from the other side, and the door began to splinter. Talia watched in growing horror as her mother took up position in front of the door. Her own hand dropped down to clutch at Starfang's hilt, but she could feel Duncan's eyes upon her, and she stayed where she was, the blade undrawn.

Eleanor Cousland, Teyrna of Highever and the woman who had spent years lecturing her recalcitrant daughter on the 'gentler arts', launched herself at the first man through the door with a war cry that would have curdled the blood of a Chasind, the axe dragging his weapon to the side while the sword plunged into his chest. The second met the same fate, as did the third, and Talia felt a fierce pride rising through her grief. The next two came through together, however, shattering the last remains of the door, and while the Teyrna dispatched one of them, the second slipped past her defenses and took her to the floor with a brutal blow to the back of the head.

"Make it stop!" Talia cried out, turning to Duncan as more of Howe's soldiers poured into the larder.

The dead Warden shook his head sadly. "That is not within my power. Only you may bring it to an end."

She whirled back, Starfang halfway from its sheath and the Guardian's warning echoing in her mind: _Violence will be found only if you bring it with you._

_What in the Void is this, then? What do you want from me?_ She let the sword slide back into the scabbard, though her hand did not release its deathgrip on the hilt.

Couldn't.

Two soldiers dragged her mother upright; even half dazed from the blow, her green eyes blazed with defiance and not a trace of fear. She made a grab for the sheathed sword of one of them, and received a vicious slap in return.

"Eleanor!" Her father was trying to drag himself forward, his face a mask of rage, despite the loops of intestine that trailed further from his body with each tortuous inch. Two of the invaders moved to stand over him, drawing their swords.

"Wait." Oh, she knew that voice. It had haunted her dreams on a hundred nights, rung in her ears during countless fantasies of vengeance. Rendon Howe stepped through the door, his expression hatefully calm, and unbelievably, temptingly real. She could even smell that atrocious cologne that he always wore, the same one he'd been wearing when she'd faced him at the Gnawed Noble.

"He's as good as dead already," Howe said, regarding the ruined body of the man he'd called 'friend' only hours earlier with a sneer of satisfaction, "and I'd like him to take one last sight with him into the Fade." Stepping up to Eleanor, he grabbed her chin, easily avoiding her attempt to bite him as he tipped her face up to his. "One more thing that should have been mine."

Realization washed through Talia in an icy wave, followed by white hot fury, tinged red at the edges. _No. No, I can't watch this, I can't let this happen! I'll go crazy if I do._

_Only you may bring it to an end._

The scene before her was real, in some way. She knew it instinctively. She could smell the sweat and blood, feel the disturbance in the air each time one of them moved, and she was not the inexperienced girl she had been six months ago. If she attacked, she could kill every man in this room before they knew she was among them. Including Howe. And it would feel _good_.

But to what end?

As rough hands began pawing at her mother, yanking at her armor, Talia screwed her eyes shut tight. "All right, I get it, damn you!" she screamed, not sure if she was speaking to Duncan, the Guardian or someone else. "I can't change the past! Just make it stop!" The last words were choked by tears. She could shield her eyes, but not her ears, and what she could hear was tearing her to pieces. "Please!"

Silence, deep and complete. When she opened her eyes, the larder was gone; she and Duncan stood alone in the gray mist.

"Well done," he told her approvingly, watching her with the same calm sympathy that had been in his eyes as they had stepped from the tunnel at Highever. Like Wynne's, his was a sympathy that would never supersede duty.

"Was it real?" Even as she begged the question, she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer, but she couldn't not ask. "Was that what really happened?"

"Does it matter?' he countered, and she knew what he meant: not if it mattered to her, but -

"No." The answer felt like a betrayal, even though she knew it wasn't. "It doesn't change what I have to do. It doesn't change my duty."

"Then go forward and do that duty," he told her, "and know that those of us who have gone before you are with you always."

In the blink of an eye, he was gone, the mist was gone, and her companions were crowding around her in concern.

"What happened?" Alistair demanded, looking more than a little wild eyed. "You walked in and vanished, and then some kind of magical barrier sprang up so we couldn't get in and all we could hear was you screaming."

"Are you all right?" No longer being carried, Leliana tugged her head down, looking anxiously into her eyes. "What happened to you?" she demanded angrily.

"Something that needed to happen," Talia told her, feeling weary and husked out. "A price that had to be paid." She let Leliana and Alistair embrace her, taking strength from the simple fact of their reality, her eyes finding Wynne's solemn face, seeing the understanding there. "I don't want to talk about it. Not now." _Maybe not ever._

* * *

"Now what?" Talia stared in frustration at the transparent stones that stretched across the chasm between them and the door on the far side. She had already torn her own heart to shreds; what more did this place want of her?

Bending, she retrieved a piece of broken tile and pitched it out onto the stones, confirming what she had seen the first time she attempted this experiment: the rubble tumbled through the translucent pathway without even slowing, disappearing into the darkness below.

"Some mechanism?" Zevran paced the perimeter of the room, his eyes scanning the walls thoughtfully, reaching out to run his fingers over the intricate carvings that covered every inch of the marble in an elaborate mural that depicted Andraste's life, from her birth to her execution and the arrival of her ashes to this temple. "Well hidden, if so."

"Magic, perhaps?" Wynne mused, her eyes slightly unfocused. "I can feel no triggering wards."

"If we could get a rope secured on the other side, we could use that to cross," Alistair reasoned, peering at the columns to either side of the door.

"Brilliant," Talia muttered, removing a coil of rope from her pack and tossing it to him. "Make sure you explain to it how it's supposed to tie itself into a knot."

"I'm just thinking aloud," he replied, looking wounded.

She was immediately contrite."I'm sorry," she told him. "It's at least as good as anything I've come up with. Maybe if we tied the end of the rope around a stone to weight it, it would wrap around one of the columns enough to -"

"It's a test," Leliana said suddenly. She had remained silent as the rest of them had voiced their theories, her gaze fixed upon the bridge.

"I gathered that much," Talia replied dryly, "but what kind of test?"

The bard smiled at her, peaceful and sure. "A test of faith," she said, stepping without warning out onto the ghostly stones.

" _NO_!" The shout came in unison from Talia and Alistair, and Talia was certain that her heart had stopped beating in the instant before she realized that Leliana was standing _on_ the bridge, the stones solid beneath her feet.

Both Wardens rushed onto the bridge, but Alistair fell back a step, letting Talia throw her arms around the bard. She held on tight for a moment, then pushed her out to arm's length, glaring at her. "If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I'll -"

"Tie me up?" Leliana suggested with a mischievous grin.

"Worse," Talia growled. "Much, much worse." She hugged her friend again, waiting for her heart to return to a more normal pace, then gave Alistair a quizzical look. "Waiting for something?"

"Just making sure I wasn't going to get caught in a crossfire," he replied amiably, stepping forward to wrap his arms around them both. "That really wasn't very nice," he scolded Leliana. "You could have given us some warning, you know."

"If I had stopped to think about it, doubts might have begun to creep in," the bard replied, as though it were the most logical thing in the world. "It might not have worked then."

Talia and Alistair exchanged a wide-eyed glance over Leliana's head, then looked down to the bridge underfoot. It _seemed_ solid...

"Yes...well, er -"

"Right. Time to go."

* * *

Fire.

"Is anyone else getting tired of this?" Talia crossed her arms, glaring at the latest barrier as though it were a personal insult.

"The path to something so great should not be an easy one," Wynne reminded her.

"Right. Can I request that for the next test, Alistair gets to put on a dress and dance the Remigold?"

"Hey!" His protest was echoed by Leliana's giggle as Talia stepped forward to read the inscription on the simple granite altar once more:

_"Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit._

_King and slave, lord and beggar, humble yourself before the Maker and be born anew in His sight."_

She stared at the leaping flames, and beyond them the stairs leading upward.

Fire purified.

And everyone, from king to beggar, was born naked, without any of the trappings of the worldly life.

"What are you doing?" Alistair asked as she sat down and pulled off her boots.

"What we're supposed to be doing - I hope." Piece by piece, the Warden Commander's armor followed the boots. Alistair had patiently removed the worst of the dents in camp, but she'd need to visit Soldier's Peak to let Mikhael do a more thorough job.

"You mean..." His eyes had gone wide with apprehension.

"Yup," Talia confirmed with a tight grin. "Everything off."

"Well, _my_ prayers have just been answered." Zevran's quip was punctuated by a resounding slap and a yelp from the elf.

"Thank you, Wynne," Talia murmured, standing and pulling her tunic over her head, her eyes fixed on the flames as she tossed the garment to the side and loosened the cloth that bound her breasts. She could hear the others disrobing, but did not look around at Wynne's murmur of shock as Leliana's scars were bared.

"It's all right," the Orlesian said softly.

Talia's eyes never left the flames as her fingers found the laces to her trews and loosened them, sliding the thin material down her legs along with her smallclothes and stepped free of them. Her bare skin was grimy, smeared with sweat, dust and blood, and marred by the scars that magical healing could not completely erase.

_It can't just be this. It's got to be more than physical._

She took a step forward, feeling the heat of the fire growing stronger.

"Talia?" Leliana's voice was fearful now, but the Warden barely heard her. All her attention was fixed upon the flames, and the One who had placed them in their path.

_I never really believed Mother Mallol's teachings. I listened, I learned, but I never thought they were real. You never seemed real to me...but You are._

_You made this world, and then You abandoned it. It never made any sense to me. It still doesn't._

Another step.

_You let Your own bride be executed like a criminal, then be hidden away on this mountain when she could have brought so much hope. Why?_

Another step, the heat growing intense.

_You took everything from me, gave me no choice. You've done the same to the others, forcing them onto the path that You want them to be on. Sometimes I hate You for that. Do You care?_

Another step, and she could feel her skin beginning to blister.

_You're not going to answer me, are You?_

A hand on her shoulder, trying to pull her back. She didn't look around, just shrugged it off and kept moving.

_It doesn't matter. I'm going to do what You want me to do, because it's right, and because it has to be done. I can't tell You that I love You, but I have to trust You, and I will obey You._

She reached the flames, stretching back into her memory to the lessons she had learned, the words coming to her lips, borne on a new awareness.

_"For as there is but one world,_

_One life, one death, there is_

_But one god, and He is our Maker."_

She took one more step and knelt in the midst of the fire, her head bowed in humble supplication. She could feel the heat, but the flames that licked at her skin no longer burned, but caressed her with a gentle, tingling warmth.

_"O Creator, see me kneel:_

_For I walk only where You would bid me."_

She was barely aware of the others entering the flames, kneeling beside her: Leliana's voice rising strong and sure; Wynne quieter but no less confident, while Alistair mumbled haltingly and Zevran spoke in a lilting language that must be Antivan.

_"Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,_

_I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm._

_I shall endure."_

The flames leaped even higher for a moment, then died away as though they had never been. Her skin was as clean as though she had just stepped from a bath, her scars gone, and when Talia lifted her head, she found herself looking into the grave and kind eyes of the Guardian.

"You have proven worthy," he intoned solemnly. "Arise, and look upon what no mortal eyes have seen in half a hundred generations."


	24. So Close

That the Arl of Redcliffe doted upon his wife was quite plain from the heavily Orlesian flavor of the _fête_ that was held five days after his recovery. Everything, from the elaborate bunting and flowers that decorated the castle both inside and out, to the subtleties that graced the dinner table to the talented musicians and the formal clothing that the Arlessa had provided for her guests, had the unmistakable feel of Val Royeaux.

The experience was a bittersweet one for Leliana, reminding her of other festivities that she had enjoyed greatly, but at the same time bringing to mind the reason that such events were no longer a regular part of her life. She had changed, too, and while many of the parties had been simply lighthearted affairs to be enjoyed, she had attended many more with ulterior motives, and it was the memories of these that left a bitter taste in her mouth as she wandered among the revelers.

Still, the art of playing a role was one that she remembered well, so her smile was gracious, her demeanor friendly with just a hint of flirtatiousness, carefully designed to put both men and women at ease without encouraging too much familiarity. Most of the Banns sworn to Eamon were in attendance, along with the residents of the town of Redcliffe, and while Jowan's testimony seemed to lay blame for the poisoning quite clearly at Loghain's feet, the idea of co-conspirators could not be ruled out.

So she mingled and chatted, danced and watched, her eyes searching for the subtle clues of a thwarted coup: private conversations that lingered too long in out of the way spots, stealthy looks in the Arl's direction. Thus far, nothing had drawn her attention, and she was ready to give up on the self-imposed task.

"Would you care to dance, my lady?"

She turned to find Alistair executing a passable bow to her. Whatever Isolde's feelings might be toward him, she had not stinted on his clothing: the white satin tunic and red velvet doublet were exquisitely tailored and accented with a gold-threaded trim, while the hose were a tastefully patterned particolor red and white, with polished low boots of black leather. Of course, Alistair had been utterly mortified, and Talia had laughed until she'd given herself hiccups, but he did look quite handsome...in a very Orlesian sort of way.

Of course, he'd never been taught to dance, so much of the previous two days had been spent with the three of them locked away in the armory, Talia leading him through the steps to Leliana's accompaniment on her lute. He'd actually done reasonably well, once Talia explained to him that the footwork that was vital in combat could also serve on the dance floor, but the bard still giggled at the memory of the pair of them waltzing about, muttering, "Shield foot, sword foot, shield foot, sword foot."

Leliana returned the bow with a curtsy and a smile. "I would be delighted, ser knight." He had prudently avoided the more intricate dances of the evening, but he still had no lack of female partners – including a few that looked to be quite willing to be twirled straight from the dance floor into the bedchamber – and this was without knowledge of his parentage. The Maker only knew what they'd do if they knew that he was Maric's sole surviving son and the most legitimate heir to the throne of Ferelden.

"You look lovely this evening," he complimented her as they joined the other couples swirling about the dance square that had been set up in the courtyard of Redcliffe Castle. Summer was almost done, and the heat had abated enough, particularly after sunset, to allow the dancing to be held outside, though the torches that illuminated the square were set on poles high enough to keep them from throwing too much warmth on the revelers.

"Why thank you." She glanced down at the royal blue satin dress. After months in leather armor, the feel of the fabric against her skin was an almost sinfully luxurious sensation. And the shoes! Perfectly matched to the color of the dress and decorated with tiny ribbons and silver beads, they were a special delight. "You look quite handsome, yourself," she told him. "Every bit the dashing _chevalier_. The ladies seem to approve."

"Yes, well...ah..." He blushed, looking uncomfortable. "Some of the suggestions they've made don't seem very ladylike. Some of them are _married_!"

"And what does that have to do with anything?" she asked, then laughed merrily at the scandalized look on his face. "You're lucky we're not in Orlais. With that innocent face, some Marquessa would have dragged you to her bedchamber by now."

"Good to know. I can now cross Orlais off my list of places to visit." His face was absolutely flaming by now. "So...seen anything interesting?"

She was tempted to deliberately misinterpret his words, but decided to take pity on him. "Nothing to make me think that anyone here was involved in the Arl's poisoning," she replied.

"That's good," he said with relief, then looked at her more closely. "Isn't it?"

"It could be," she conceded, "or it could just be that they are skilled at deception."

"Are you going to try more direct methods, then?" he asked, eyes glinting with the mischief of a boy venturing into forbidden territory.

"More direct?" The look she gave him was all wide-eyed innocence. "Whatever do you mean, Alistair?"

"You know." The mischief shifted to uncertainty, and the blush that had started to fade was making a rapid comeback. "I mean...I've heard things about Orlesian bards."

"Who hasn't? They're quite famous, after all."

"Yes, but the tales I heard were a little...racier. It had to do with how bards got information from their targets, or even got close enough to assassinate them. How they...lulled them into complacency."

"And if those stories were true, who would ever agree to entertain a bard in their court?" she inquired in a playful tone, knowing full well how often they would, against all common sense. It was a blind spot that Marjolaine had taught her to exploit often.

"Oh, I don't know. There's a certain allure to danger, isn't there?" He gave her an artless grin. "I mean, you couldn't all be assassins, could you? I'd imagine most men would take their chances."

"And women," she agreed, fighting a sudden wave of melancholy, forcing a sly smile as she let him twirl her out and back. "But we had rules about such things. Strict rules."

"Such as?" He stared down at her expectantly, then affected a wounded expression when she remained silent. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"Let's just say that I had plenty of reasons to join the Chantry, shall we?" She gave him a wink, but couldn't quite manage the smile to go with it. How many families had she left grieving, simply because she was following orders? "And leave it at that."

His steps slowed as he looked more closely at her. "I'm sorry," he said, looking contrite. "That was stupid of me."

"It's all right." She did manage a smile for him now. "There's no use in pretending that my past never happened, but it feels good to be using the skills I learned for a worthy cause."

He nodded, slipping back into the cadence of the tune. "I think she sneaked off to the study," he said in a deliberately offhand manner.

"What?" She looked up at him, caught off guard, and then it was her turn to blush when she realized that he had noticed her attempts to survey the courtyard and deduced her reason.

"Talia?" He clarified with a faint smile. "I saw her edging toward the door after Bann Aldred's son was done stepping all over her feet. I can't say that I blame her," he added, looking more serious. "It feels like we're wasting time here. We should have left to seek out the Dals before now."

"There was more to the Arl's request to stay than the desire to throw a party," Leliana told him. "By having the Grey Wardens here, he makes it clear who was responsible for his recovery and allows people to reach their own conclusions about who was behind the poisoning by who isn't here. It's quite a clever tactic, actually, and will likely work in our favor at the Landsmeet. And it's given the two of you time to get reacquainted, hasn't it?"

"It has," he admitted, his face suddenly taking on that bashful boy look that had nearly every woman at the dance eying him like wolves who'd found a lost lamb, "and it's been good. Did you know that he gave me back my mother's necklace? The one I told you and Talia about, that I broke when I got so angry about going to the Chantry? He gathered up all the pieces and glued them back together, and he's kept it all these years."

"Because he cares about you." It was all too plain sometimes that Alistair had grown up believing that he wasn't worthy of caring. Even the simplest kindnesses seemed to take him by surprise, and deeper gestures often rendered him speechless.

"Yes, I guess he does." Alistair smiled uncertainly, then grimaced. "I just wish he'd give up on the idea of - you know." From the wary glance that he cast around them, it was clear that he was quite aware of what the reaction from the women would be if news of his parentage became general knowledge.

"It's a legitimate tactic, I'm afraid, and his concerns regarding the alternatives are equally legitimate." A pair of skilled bards could conduct an entire conversation without ever once referring directly to the subject at hand, but her present company was lacking in such talents. "Just focus on what needs to be done right now: first the remaining alliances and then the Blight."

"True," he agreed, brightening noticeably. "I mean, I might not even survive it all, so then I wouldn't have to -"

"Don't say that!" she scolded him; though she was fairly sure that he was being his usual droll self, it still was too chillingly true for her to want to think about.

"Hey, I've got to have something to hope for," he told her, then a gleeful grin spread over his face. "Oh, Maker, there he goes again! You've got to watch this!" Catching her by the elbow, he guided her to the edge of the square, his finger pointing to where Connor was making his way toward Morrigan.

With the current state of the Mages' Circle, it had been decided by Irving and Greagoir that it was too risky to bring a child who had already proven susceptible to demonic influence into the tower until all of the surviving mages and templars had been evaluated to ensure that no maleficarum or their thralls remained. Two templars who had been away from the tower during Uldred's uprising had been assigned to Redcliffe to watch over Connor and prevent him from any inadvertent use of his fledgeling magic. Thus far, his talent had remained quiescent, and he had no memories at all of the time he had been under the demon's sway.

Much against Morrigan's wishes, Talia had told the boy that she had been the one to enter the Fade and save him, and his determination to show proper gratitude had evolved into a fascination that had kept both Morrigan and the templars at wit's end for the last few days...and provided no small amusement to Alistair. She'd been making every attempt to avoid him tonight, but he'd found the place beside the stairs where she had half concealed herself, and there was no easy escape. Her golden eyes watched him with the expression of a lion beset by a small but persistent hound, but she allowed him to approach, eying his outstretched hands before accepting whatever it was he offered her. She examined it for a moment, then popped it into her mouth and swallowed, earning a surprised exclamation from Connor.

"All right, I've got to find out," Alistair muttered, pulling the bard with him as the witch bent to whisper something into Connor's ear. Leliana hadn't thought it possible for the boy's eyes to go wider, but they grew positively huge, and when he turned around, his face was split in a gap-toothed grin.

"Alistair, Leli, guess what? I gave Morrigan a frog, and she _ate_ it!"

"She...ate it?" The bard glanced questioningly at the witch, who glared in return, looking none too pleased by the boy's glee.

Connor nodded enthusiastically. "And she says that she and her mama used to eat _templars_!" His voice dropped dramatically on this last, his blue eyes dancing with excitement. "Wait'll I tell Remy and Tolliver!"

"I do believe you've won his heart," Leliana informed her with a mischievous grin as the boy darted away in search of his playmates.

"I thought it would drive him _off_!" Morrigan bemoaned in exasperation, glowering at the two templars, who had been watching the exchange warily. They seemed uncertain what to make of the apostate who had not only played a part in ending Uldred's uprising, but also successfully battled a demon in the Fade to save a child. They had evidently received instruction from Greagoir not to attempt to detain her so long as she remained allied to the Grey Wardens, but their distrust remained both clear and mutual.

"Did you really eat a frog?" Alistair asked, seeming torn between amusement and disgust.

"I have eaten far worse in my life," she informed him haughtily. "Your cooking being but the most recent example."

"So, should I start negotiations with the Arl on the betrothal, then?" he smirked. "You know that I will gladly represent your interests in the matter."

The golden eyes grew icy. "I forgot to mention to the boy that we turned the templars into frogs before we ate them." She looked Alistair up and down thoughtfully. "Perhaps I should provide a demonstration?"

"Do that and you'll never get rid of him," Leliana advised her as Alistair's eyes grew nearly as wide as Connor's had been. "If you really want to discourage a boy of that age, you should just kiss him."

"Kiss him?" the witch looked at her incredulously. "Do you expect me to believe that -"

"She's right," Alistair confirmed, still unable to completely erase the smirk from his face, incipient froghood or not. "Keep doing and telling him gross things, and he'll just keep coming back for more, but a kiss...that's more disgusting than eating a frog could ever be."

"Yes, I could see where the females of your acquaintance would have reached that conclusion," Morrigan sniffed disdainfully. "Still, nothing else I've tried has worked; it seems I've little to lose."

"Just the cheek, mind you," Alistair cautioned her. "Sticking your tongue in his mouth just might be gross enough to interest him."

"Do you really think so?" Leliana asked him as they walked away.

"No, but she's not one to do things by halves," Alistair replied under his breath, "and I _really_ don't want to try to explain that to Isolde."

"Alistair, there you are!" They turned to see Arl Eamon bearing down on them with a young lady beside him. Not a man to waste time was the Arl of Redcliffe; Leliana suspected that another reason for the evening's gathering had been to introduce his intended future king to prospective brides.

"Here we go again," Alistair sighed, speaking without moving his lips, which he had automatically shaped into an obliging smile. "You might as well run. This is likely to go on all night."

"Are you sure?" He was too sweet and thought too much of the Arl to speak out, but it seemed highly premature to Leliana to be matchmaking already.

"I'm sure." He grinned at her. "The study, remember? See if you can get her out of there. If I don't get to be a stick in the mud, neither does she."

She nodded, stepping away and turning to climb the steps to the castle. The guards knew the 'Champions of Redcliffe' well enough by now, and she was permitted to pass through the great doors without question. The Arl's study was on the first floor; he had an impressive collection of books, and Talia had spent nearly every spare minute there since Eamon had recovered.

The events in the Gauntlet had affected all who experienced them, but Talia the most profoundly of all. She had been silent and contemplative the entire way back to Redcliffe, her dark eyes lost in thought. Her headstrong hunger for combat had given way to a caution that seemed almost excessive to the bard; she had led them around many groups of darkspawn between Haven and Redcliffe, including smaller bands that she would once have challenged without hesitation. When faced with a fight that could not be avoided, she kept herself under rigid control; her fighting had been stilted and awkward the first few days, but she continued to spar relentlessly with the others in camp each night, and she was gradually reclaiming the deadly grace that made her so formidable.

Her concern for the well-being of her companions had only intensified, to the point that even _Wynne_ had jokingly accused her of being a mother hen. Sten endured with his usual stoicism, Morrigan grew downright surly, and even Leliana had been forced to put her foot down when the Warden had tried to forbid her from engaging with anything save her longbow. It was rather sweet...in an overbearing sort of way; having someone that worried about her was a new experience for the bard, but unfortunately, it did little to quell the feelings that Leliana was trying hard to ignore.

Talia saw her as a friend, and nothing more. Try as Leliana might, she could detect nothing even remotely indicating romantic interest in her. Or Alistair, for that matter. Or Zevran, Morrigan, or even Sten. The girl seemed utterly oblivious to matters of the heart, her attention now focused completely on her duty as a Grey Warden. In a way, it made it easier, knowing that Talia hadn't rejected her for another, but at the same time, to be so close to someone who remained so frustratingly obtuse was maddening.

The memory of some of the things she'd said while she was loopy from the herbs that Wynne had given her for the pain was enough to make Leliana blush, and clearly Alistair had recognized the flirtations for what they were ( _Alistair_ , for the Maker's sake!), but Talia had simply taken them in stride, neither spurning them nor showing interest...or even giving any indication that she realized she was being flirted with at all. She had simply been there: protective and caring and so remorseful that it hurt Leliana to watch her. She had made the choice to draw the dragon away from Talia, after all, and it had not been the attack upon herself that haunted her dreams, but the image of Talia torn and crushed, her life's blood pouring from a score of wounds onto the stones that brought her awake in tears, heart pounding until she could convince herself that it really was Talia's arms around her, Talia's voice speaking to her in a soothing cadence, pushing the nightmares back and allowing her to fall back asleep.

Light shone from behind the partially closed door of the study, and the bard found her steps growing more careful, wanting a few moments to observe Talia without the Warden's awareness.

She was seated at the Arl's desk with a book open in front of her, and several other tomes stacked to either side. In the light of the lamps, Leliana could see the titles of a few: a treatise on the Dalish elves, a history of Orzammar, a registry of Fereldan nobility.

She hadn't changed out of the dress that she'd been wearing earlier that evening, which was precisely what Leliana had been hoping for. She looked so different, out of her armor and the practical garb that she wore on the road. The gangling teen from Lothering was maturing into a tall and graceful young woman, a realization that had plainly surprised her when she first tried on the dress that Isolde had provided. Leliana had been expecting her to balk at the notion of dressing up and going to a ball, but she had acquiesced with surprising good grace, and the Arlessa had wisely chosen a simple gown of lightweight silk and satin in hues of gold and brown that complimented the warrior's skin and hair. Talia had protested that the bodice of the dress was too revealing, though it was actually quite modest by current fashions. Isolde had quickly quelled her objections by producing an exquisite necklace of polished tiger-eye and onyx that even the Warden seemed to admire, and she had at last accepted the argument that altering the scooped neckline of the dress would not provide a suitable display for the stones.

Nor had she refused Isolde's offer of two maids to help her prepare, though she had been taken aback when they offered to help her bathe (an Orlesian custom) and refused – politely but firmly. The only outright rebellion had come when the two women had approached her with a set of iron curling tongs. The brave Warden had fled to Leliana, begging for something to do with her hair that didn't involve cooking it. After a bit of experimentation, a more elegant version of her now customary braid had been settled on, and the bard had convinced her to allow a few curls at her temples and ears.

The results had been breathtaking, and Leliana had been far from the only one to notice. There had been no shortage of men asking Talia to dance, and she had obliged them all with a pleasant and dignified manner that made it clear that she had indeed been born and raised in a noble house. The bard had also found herself the recipient of many invitations to dance, and while it had been an enjoyable enough way to pass an evening, her eyes always found their way back to Talia.

The Warden had put on a good act, but it _was_ an act, though only those who knew her might be able to see the shadows behind the smiles. The only dances that Talia seemed to truly enjoy were those when she partnered with Alistair – which always wound up descending into buffoonery (Leliana had lost count of how many unlikely tunes the pair had managed to fit the Remigold into), or the ones where she let Connor lead her through the steps, occasionally bending to whisper a correction to him. The bard hadn't been surprised when she realized that the Warden had vanished, nor was she surprised to find her here.

"Hey," she said softly. Talia's head came up, the smile that appeared on her face making Leliana's heart beat faster.

"Hey, yourself," Talia replied, leaning back in her chair and pushing the book in front of her away a bit. "Your feet get tired of getting stepped on, too?"

"Something like that," Leliana said, slipping into the room and easing the door closed behind her, "but surely even the clumsiest dance partner would be more entertaining that this?" She gestured at the room with one hand.

Talia shrugged. "We'll be leaving tomorrow, and I can't cart all these books with us; I just figured I'd try one more time to find...something." She tipped her head back with a sigh. "I hated studying when I was younger; I'd do anything to get out of it. If I'd paid more attention then, maybe I'd be having better luck now."

"What are you looking for?" Leliana wanted to know.

"Anything!" Talia said tersely, flipping the book closed with an impatient hand. "How not to offend the Dals when we trespass on their territory, how to get the attention of the dwarves if they really have cut off access to the surface like Bohdan says." She closed her eyes, rubbing at them wearily. "How to kill an archdemon."

"There's still time," the bard tried to reassure her, but the Warden shook her head.

"How much?" she demanded. "For all we know, the damn thing could be waiting for us on the road outside Redcliffe tomorrow." She flipped open the book again, and Leliana caught enough of a glimpse of the cover to recognize it as the best known history of the Grey Wardens. "I can tell you the name of every Warden to kill an archdemon since the Battle of Silent Fields in the first Blight. They made damn good and sure to record the _who_ , but they apparently never thought they'd need to write down _how_." She leaned forward, resting her forehead on the heel of her hand. "Evidently, the idea that two novices might wind up facing a Blight alone was too far-fetched to consider."

"It is rather unlikely," Leliana told her, moving behind the chair, her fingers kneading the taut muscle in the Warden's shoulders while her thumbs pressed circles up and down the line of her neck. "Having seen you and Alistair fight, I can only imagine how formidable hundreds of Wardens would seem. That their numbers could be so drastically reduced must have been unthinkable."

"Arrogance," Talia muttered, "assisted by a healthy dose of betrayal." Her head tipped to the side slightly. "A little higher on the left...right there..." She sucked in a breath through clenched teeth as the bard obligingly went to work on a knot at the base of her skull, her body tensing, then sagging as deft fingers coaxed the knot onto relaxing. "Perfect," she sighed, her hand coming up to give Leliana's a grateful squeeze. "Thanks. I owe you."

"I seem to recall you saying the same thing about your hair." Leliana let a teasing note creep into her voice, but she was glad that Talia could not see her face as she let her fingers trail along the braided hair, tucking a few wayward strands behind one ear. "Your debts are mounting, my Warden."

"I pay my debts." Talia feigned indignation, but Leliana could tell that she was smiling. "Especially those I owe my bard."

_My bard._ The words caught her breath in her chest for a moment, the knowledge that their meaning was different to Talia a bittersweet ache. "Well, I'm calling them in," she said, managing to keep the same bantering tone. "Your payment is to get out of this dull room and enjoy the rest of this evening, maybe even dance a bit more."

Talia snorted. "Did I mention that my feet were tired of being stepped on?" She shook her head in disgust. "Honestly, if my mother could teach me to dance, you'd think that anyone could manage it."

"Well, I've been told that I'm fairly decent at it." The words left her mouth seemingly of their own will. "I'd imagine that your feet would be safe with me." _What are you doing?_

"Dance with you?" Talia's head tipped back, dark eyes regarding her with curiosity and wary amusement. "Is this another Orlesian thing?" _Orlesian thing_ covered a wide variety of subjects, from birds in hair to beribboned shoes and frilly dresses to nobles who were "so bloody pampered they've forgotten how to _bathe_ themselves, for Andraste's sake!".

"Actually, it is," Leliana informed her, seemingly unable to heed the voice of reason that was telling her to shut up and let the subject drop. "In the noble houses, the men will go together on great hunting trips that will sometimes last two weeks or more. In their absence, their ladies will hold _la fête des femmes_ : a decadent party that can stretch on for days, sometimes moving from manor to manor. The only men allowed are the servants and musicians, but even those are rare. There is the finest food and wine, and gossip, and much music, and the ladies dance with each other."

Which was true, as far as it went, but she wasn't about to mention the activities that occurred after - and sometimes during - the dancing, and she was doing her best to not even think about it. The _fêtes_ were unrestrained, hedonistic occasions that exemplified the excesses of Orlesian high society.

She was prepared - almost hoping - for Talia to dismiss the whole notion with a disbelieving laugh, as she generally did with 'Orlesian things'; her heart simultaneously plummeted and took flight when the warrior pushed the chair back from the desk and stood, saying, "All right, then. Let us dance."

"Here?" She stared stupidly at Talia, her heart fluttering in her chest like a trapped bird. "Now?"

The Warden looked at her quizzically. "Well, I assumed that you meant now, and as for here," she gestured toward the expanse of floor between the desk and the door, "I don't think that most Ferelden men have ever seen two women dancing." She smirked. "Might wound their pride to be outdone by a female. If we open the windows, we should be able to hear the music clearly; do you think there's enough room?"

She nodded, watching as Talia moved to the study windows and swung them wide. Immediately, the muted tones of the music rang clear in the night air, and she felt the rising panic still somewhat as she recognized the familiar tempo of a waltz. Simple and safe. She could do this. She could.

"Well?" Talia was in front of the desk, watching her expectantly, and she realized that she hadn't moved. "Who asks who?"

The whimsical smile on her face further settled Leliana's nerves. This was Talia. Her friend. "I think we can skip that part," she said, stepping around the desk. "The steps are a bit different, but we'll start with what you know."

Talia nodded, allowing the bard to position her. "I don't get to lead?" she protested when Leliana placed her left hand on the bard's right shoulder and settled her own right hand on the curve of the warrior's waist.

"Eventually, neither of us will," Leliana informed her, "but it will be easier for me to show you this way."

"Hmmph," Talia snorted, but she was still smiling, eyes shining with interest at the prospect of learning something new.

The first steps were halting and hesitant, Leliana's heart resuming its breakneck pace, then slowing somewhat as they smoothed out. The agile grace that served Talia so well in battle transferred easily to dance, and she learned with her usual swiftness; they had soon abandoned the traditional forms for the subtle, swirling alliance that kept the peace between the notoriously status-conscious Orlesian noblewomen during the _fêtes_. The waltz gave way to a minuet, then a rigaudon, an allemande followed by a courante and finally another waltz, fabric of blue and gold shimmering in the lamplight. Leliana let the rest of the world fall away, losing herself in the music and the simple intimacy of the moment as they moved in an easy synchrony that Leliana had felt with none of her previous partners that evening. Talia's smile had broadened into a delighted grin, the weary frustration banished, at least for the moment, and they giggled madly as they took turns twirling each other out and back.

So close. The bard stared up into Talia's eyes as the Warden caught her after one such twirl, captivated by the playful gleam. All she had to do was reach up, slide her arms around Talia's neck, and -

"What's wrong?"

She didn't even realize that she had pulled away until Talia was turning her back around with a worried expression. "It's nothing," she lied, knowing as she spoke that it would not suffice. "It's just that this reminds me of things in Orlais that I miss...and other things that I don't."

Talia nodded, seeming to accept this. "Come on," she said after a moment's silence, her hand slipping down Leliana's arm until her fingers could intertwine with the bard's and tugging her gently toward the door.

"Where?' Leliana asked, resisting the pull, part of her wanting to run and hide, the other part not wanting to ever let go.

"You wanted me out of this room, didn't you? We're going."

She shook her head, her feet feeling suddenly leaden. "Talia, I really don't feel like going back out -"

The Warden laughed. "Don't worry. That's not where we're going. I just want to show you something: a place I found." She glanced back with a winsome expression. "Please?"

The wheedling tone was one that she'd seldom heard from Talia, and combined with the puppy-dog eyes, was something she couldn't resist. "All right," she acquiesced, allowing Talia to lead her out of the study and upstairs to a door at the end of the second floor hallway.

"Careful," Talia warned her as they stepped through the doorway into darkness. "There's usually a lantern on a hook by the door, but someone's taken it. It's not far, but there are steps going up." The Warden eased her forward until her foot touched the first. "Right here."

She held on to Talia's hand as they climbed upward in a tight spiral. By the second full turn, she knew that they were in the tower that rose above the rest of Redcliffe castle, but it was still a pleasant surprise to emerge into the night air to see the village and surrounding landscape spread beneath them in a world of lengthening shadows, the western sky still aflame with the last light of the setting sun, while the eastern sky was dark and glittering with stars, and the half moon hanging bright overhead.

"It's lovely," she exclaimed, leaning over the parapet to peer down at the courtyard below, the revelers still dancing and carrying on, unaware of the watchers above.

Talia nodded, looking pleased. "I come up here at night when I can't sleep. It's quiet, and there's always a nice breeze."

"What do you do up here?" Leliana asked her curiously.

Talia shrugged. "Sit. Think. Look at the stars." Backing up to the wall, she slid down it until she was sitting on the stones. "Nan told me stories about the constellations a long time ago, but I can't really remember them any more. The only one that I know now is that one." She pointed to a bright spot of light low on the northern horizon. "The soldiers all call it the Guide, because it's always in the North, so you can use it to find your way if you get lost."

"Very practical," Leliana agreed with a smile as she sat down beside Talia. How very like her Warden to remember only the useful aspect of stars. "But look at that cluster of stars over there." She pointed to the east, Talia's eyes following the gesture. "Did Nan ever tell you the tale of Alindra and her soldier?"

Talia frowned thoughtfully. "I don't think so," she said at last.

"Then I shall tell you," the bard replied, and began to unspool the story of Alindra, the noble's daughter who dared to love a simple soldier; the cruelty of her father, who sent her love off to war to be killed; and the kindness of the gods, who heard the maiden's plea and set she and her lover in the sky as constellations, with a band of stars linking them and a promise that they would one day be together.

When she had finished, Talia looked mildly out of sorts. "Now I know why Nan never told me that one," she grumbled. "Why do those stories always have bad endings?"

"It's not a bad ending, silly!" Leliana exclaimed with an exasperated roll of her eyes. "It ends with hope: Alindra and her love will be reunited some day. This story has always been one of my favorites: a tale of a love so great and enduring that it defies death, and moves the gods to action." Before she could stop herself, her mouth ran on without her once more. "Sometimes, I ask myself, does such a love exist? Can it exist?"

It was madness to tempt fate so, madness to want more when she had already been granted far greater happiness than she had ever thought to feel again, and yet, she couldn't help it.

Talia was silent for so long that she began to fear that she had offended the girl somehow. Just when the pounding of her own heart had become all but unbearable, and she was about to apologize, Talia spoke up suddenly, her voice thick with emotion. "It did...once."

She turned to the bard, her eyes bright with tears, her cheeks damp with their tracks. "I never told you what happened when we were separated in the Gauntlet, did I?"

"No." Leliana had been frightened when the magical barrier had sprung up to prevent them from following Talia, and even more so when the strange fog that filled the room beyond had swallowed her, but the Warden's screams had nearly stopped her heart:

_All right, I get it, damn you! I can't change the past! Just make it stop! Please!_ Her face when they'd found her had been haunted but resigned, much as it was now as she began - haltingly at first - to tell of the nightmare she'd had to live through. "Unto death and beyond," she said at last, her voice low and steady, her eyes distant and sorrowful. "She loved him that much, and he loved her."

"And they both loved you." The bard uttered the words with more than a little trepidation; the last time they had spoken of this subject, on that night watch so many months ago, it had torn a rift between them that she would not be able to endure now.

Talia's eyes, as dark as the polished onyx at her neck in the moonlight, returned from the past to focus on her. "Yes," she agreed softly, "and their love lives on in me, in my memories of them. You tried to tell me that once. I didn't want to hear it then, but thank you: for saying it then, and for listening to me now." She drew a deep breath, let it out and offered the bard a wan smile. "It feels better to be able to talk about it."

"You've listened to me often enough," Leliana replied, taking Talia's hand in her own and squeezing it gently. "The least I can do is return the favor. That is what friends are for, no?"

"Yes." Talia's eyes studied their joined hands bemusedly. "I've never had a friend like you," she admitted. "There were never any girls my age at Highever. Mother tried to foster them a few times, but they all seemed so silly to me." Her gaze lifted briefly to meet Leliana's, a hint of a sly smile on her lips as she added, "All they wanted to talk about was shoes and dresses." She was silent for a moment, her expression thoughtful. "I never really gave them a chance, though. Maybe if I'd gotten to know them, I'd have found out there was more to them than that." Her smile was awkward, hesitant. "I'm glad I found that out about you."

Leliana couldn't speak for a moment. She threw her arms around Talia in an impulsive hug. "You are my dearest friend," she whispered, feeling Talia return the embrace, feeling utterly and unequivocally happy.

And then her traitorous tongue broke free again as they drew apart, their arms still around each other and Talia's face so close to her own. "And sometimes, I – I think that maybe -" _Shut up, you fool!_

"Make way!" The shouts from below had Talia on her feet and peering over the parapet. Leliana followed, not sure whether to bless or curse the interruption.

A lone runner had emerged from the tunnel that led through the outer wall of the keep, sweat gleaming on his facein the light from the torches. "Arl Eamon!" the runner shouted, the emblem of Redcliffe briefly visible on his tabard. "I must speak to the Arl and the Wardens!"

Leliana's breath caught in her throat, but Talia was already turning for the door, her expression grim, knowing as well as the bard that nothing good could be behind such a summons.

"Come on."

They descended swiftly in the darkness: a bit too swiftly. Leliana felt her foot come down on the edge of a stair, then slip off. Talia caught her before she could fall, one arm around her waist while her free hand gripped the railing, steadying them both.

"Are you all right?" Talia's voice in her ear, breath warm against her cheek. So close. All she had to do was turn her head a bit, and -

"I'm fine," she answered, glad that she had an excuse to sound breathless. "Just...a bit slower, please?"

"Of course," the Warden replied instantly. "I'm sorry." She loosed her hold on the bard carefully, making sure that she was steady before taking her hand and leading her down at a slower pace. They ran once they reached the lighted hallway on the second floor, descending quickly to the first and coming face to face with Alistair, Arl Eamon, Bann Teagan and a man who must have been the runner as they entered the great hall.

"What's happened?" Talia demanded.

"My soldiers have found a man who claims to have been a prisoner in Bann Loren's dungeons," Eamon replied. "They're bringing him here, but he's been badly wounded; I'll be sending a wagon to speed his journey."

"He escaped, I assume?" Talia's expression made her opinion of the Bann quite clear; his reputation for opportunism and duplicity was well known, and though not fealty sworn to Redcliffe, his lands were close enough that he had been conspicuous by his absence this evening.

"Aye," Teagan replied with a mirthless smile. "but that's not the most interesting part of his tale; he claims that he was captured after surviving the battle at Ostagar."


	25. Return To Ostagar

Regardless of the grimness of the task ahead, it felt good to be back on the road. Talia hadn't realized how accustomed she had become to their nomadic routine until they had spent nearly a week as the honored guests of the Arl of Redcliffe. A week of sleeping indoors, waking to the same sights every morning and having servants catering to her every whim should have felt like coming home...but it hadn't. Part of it was that Redcliffe was not Highever and never would be, but the rest was a change that had taken place in her, and one that she suspected would not reverse itself.

She'd comported herself as she'd been taught, had allowed Isolde to dress her up, had danced and chatted and played the part of a Teyrn's daughter at the ball. She'd done that for her mother, who had so wanted her to be a lady, as well as a warrior, and for her father, who had taught her that duty came before all else. She could do it, and she would again, if the need arose, but she knew now that she would never return to Highever to stay.

The heady feeling of relief that had come over her upon leaving Redcliffe had been tempered in the subsequent days as they drew closer to their destination, however, the knowledge of what awaited them there reinforced by the growing pressure in her mind. The fleeting touches that told her when darkspawn were near had become a relentless thrumming by the time the walls of the ruined fortress were sighted in the distance, and as they advanced even further, had shifted from coming from distinctly ahead of them to a nebulous awareness that came from all sides.

They were surrounded.

"Patrol formation," she called in a low voice as they entered the ruins. After over half a year, the smell of death and decay had faded to a stale foulness, but the darkspawn stench was strong. Behind her, she could hear the others following her orders: Shale and Sten dropping to the rear, Wynne, Morrigan and Leliana drawing together in the center, while Zev and Brego moved to either flank, leaving she and Alistair to take point. From this formation, they could swiftly shift positions to respond to a threat from any direction.

But what in the Void were they going to do if they were attacked from more than one direction?

"Are we sure this is a good idea?" she muttered under her breath. Alistair's hazel eyes flicked toward her briefly before turning back to their wary surveillance of the suspiciously empty-looking ruins.

"Almost definitely the craziest thing we've done to date," he agreed, "but Eamon was right: if we can find those documents and they prove that the King was planning an alliance with Orlais, it'll be another blow against Loghain at the Landsmeet."

"And we're the only ones who can sense the darkspawn, so we have the best chance of getting in and out alive," Talia finished for him with a sigh of resignation. The discussion that had led to their return to Ostagar had taken most of the night and grown heated on occasion. Eamon and Teagan had been eager to attempt to retrieve the royal strongbox once they'd heard what it might contain. They'd been markedly less eager when Alistair had declared that the Grey Wardens would be the ones to go, arguing that at least one of them should stay behind.

Neither Alistair nor Talia had any doubt about which one the two nobles would prefer not to go, but Talia had known better than to argue with Alistair when he had put his foot down and insisted that he was going; she would have felt the same, had their positions been reversed.

More surprising had been Wynne's acquiescence. Talia had expected her to object, but she agreed that the potential strategic importance of the documents that had been left behind was worth the risk. Talia herself was less sure, but then, her memories of Ostagar were hazy, all but obscured by the grief and rage that had been her world in those few days and the injuries that had nearly claimed her life in the battle. Still, she trusted Alistair's judgment; he had followed her without question on the paths that she had chosen, and now it was her turn.

Her attention was drawn by a sudden increase in the pressure, ahead and to the left. "You feel it?" she asked Alistair, slowing her step, eyes scanning the terrain ahead. Not many, at least not close...

"Yeah." He matched her stride, his normally good-natured face gone hard.

She glanced back; the others had seen the change in their posture and were readying themselves, Sten and Shale moving forward while Zev and Brego drew back and out, ready to flank. Leliana had slipped an arrow from her quiver and set it to her bowstring; the bard met her eyes and gave her a reassuring smile, her features set into an expression of calm resolve.

Faith. In the Maker, in the Wardens, in her. That steadfast trust confounded Talia, but it also strengthened her determination to be worthy of it. She would not be the reason that Leliana – or any of the others – fell in battle again.

_The righteous stand before the darkness, and the Maker shall guide their hand._

She didn't feel righteous, and she still wasn't sure what she had done to be deemed 'worthy' in the Gauntlet. Maybe the Maker had appreciated her honesty. Leliana might argue that He loved the world, and that they were part of His plan to defeat the Blight, but Talia remained cognizant that letting His bride and prophet be burned at the stake had evidently been part of His plan, too. Whatever His plan for the Blight might be, they were all no more than pawns in it, and she didn't plan on blindly depending on Him to get them all through it alive.

That was her job.

Returning Leliana's smile, she turned her attention forward again, and now she could see them: perhaps half a dozen genlocks, no sign of an alpha or emissary with them. Easy pickings, as long as others didn't hear and come running to join in.

"Quick and quiet," she said in a low voice, glancing to either side to be sure she'd been heard. "Ready?" She lifted her sword, brought it down in a silent sweep as the signal to attack. They charged without a word, the rattle of their armor and the vibration of Shale's massive feet on the ground the only warnings their foes were given.

What she'd read of the darkspawn in Eamon's library had only confirmed what their experience had taught: the lower ranks were largely unskilled fighters, relying primarily on savagery and greater numbers to defeat their opponents. Without the guiding intelligence of an alpha, they were highly deficient in regards to tactics, as well, and the small group that they faced now responded to their charge by running forward to meet it piecemeal.

Alistair took on the first, his shield smashing into it and sending it staggering backward. He was upon it a second later, another shield bash knocking it to the ground, his sword flashing in the sun briefly before the gleam was quenched by a gout of dark blood.

An arrow flew past Talia's head, embedding itself in the throat of the one directly in front of her; she quickly shifted targets, snapping her shield out. She didn't have the sheer mass to knock them back the way Alistair did, unless she had a good running start, but it rarely failed to at least daze them for a few seconds...which was all she needed. Starfang bit deep, stabbing into the meat of an arm, withdrawing and driving in again, this time finding a gap in the ragged leather cuirass and plunging into the chest. From the corners of her vision, she could see Sten and Shale engaging, while Zev and Brego folded in around the ends, closing the trap.

"Watch out!" Leliana's cry echoed the voice of her own instinct, warning of a threat from behind. Wrenching her sword free, she reversed her grip, turning her head to catch the flicker of movement as she thrust backward and upward, grunting at the sudden jolt as she struck home. She spun left, leading with her shield and sending the genlock she'd just skewered stumbling to the ground, bleeding but not yet dead.

Four others had appeared behind them, lightly armored and wielding short but wickedly barbed daggers. Lightning arced through the air, wrapping one in its flickering embrace, while a head-sized chunk of conjured stone took another in the chest, knocking it backward into Sten's killing blow. Brego claimed a third, coming in low and knocking the daggers aside with sheer weight as he rose up to sink his teeth into his target's throat. Talia's was the only one remaining, struggling to rise and snarling in defiance. She stepped in, bringing Starfang around to separate head from shoulders in a single, smooth cut.

"Where did they come from?" Alistair asked, sounding surprised but not overly alarmed. His eyes were already searching the surrounding area, ignoring their defeated foes and looking for the next threat.

"Out of the ground." Leliana strode forward, her foot nudging up the trap door: hide stretched over sticks and covered with grass and leaves, hiding the shallow holes beneath. "They jumped up right after you passed."

"That's new," Talia murmured, crouching to examine one of the bodies. They looked no different from the other genlocks, but their weapons and light armor were clearly intended for surprise attacks, which meant that they had to be at least a bit smarter than the average genlock grunt. "Thanks for the warning."

"You're welcome." The bard flashed a smile, but quickly turned serious as she knelt beside Talia, picking up one of the daggers. "Cheaply made, but a nasty design," she observed, running a finger along the barbed edge. "Intended specifically for stabbing attacks; it will do even more damage being pulled out than it does going in."

"Messy," Zevran agreed, standing over them and looking down at the weapons with an expression of disdain. "Designed for those too clumsy to kill with a single strike. Likely poisoned, as well."

Leliana nodded, rummaging in the ragged pouch at the dead genlock's hip and coming up with a round wooden box. She lifted the cap off and sniffed the paste inside, her expression grave.

"Deathroot and something else," she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste and passing the container to the Antivan. He touched the tip of his finger to the contents, then to his tongue, his eyes thoughtful.

"Adder venom," he said, spitting to the side, taking a healthy swig of water from the skin he carried, swirling it in his mouth, then spitting again. "It causes tissue to rot. In a deep wound, it ensures a very fragrant and painful death."

"Lovely," Alistair grimaced, glancing down at them, "but we need to keep moving."

Talia nodded, rising to her feet and taking the container from Zev, replacing the lid and passing it to Wynne. Later, perhaps the mage would be able to develop an antidote. For now, speed was vital; they had camped as far away as possible the previous night, and had left the tents and gear behind that morning. If they hadn't found what they sought by mid-afternoon, they would pull back to the camp and decide whether or not to return the next day, but they could not spend the night in the ruins.

Though the human habitations within Ostagar had been destroyed, the stone of the ancient fortress endured with little change, and Talia soon recognized landmarks: the infirmary, the splintered wood of the cots scattered among the shattered bones of those who had lain upon them; the war council area, the massive table split down its center. Dimly, she remembered that last meeting: Cailan's cocky confidence, Duncan's caution, Loghain's cold displeasure. Had he been planning his betrayal even then, or had it been a decision reached on the field?

"Company," Alistair announced in a singsong, nodding toward the cluster of darkspawn that awaited them at the far end of the colonnade. She could see the hulking form of a hurlock amid the stockier genlocks, it's armor heavier, adorned with bones taken from its fallen foes, and a massive, horned helm on its head.

"Alpha," she noted. "Yours or mine?"

"Oh, why don't I take him this time?" he replied as a bolt of energy flew from the center of the clustered genlocks. She twisted, taking it on her shield, absorbing the impact with a slight back-step "You can have the emissary."

"Thanks." The presence of the alpha enforced discipline of a sort on the grunts; they made no move to rush forward, though the arrows that they fired still fell far from their mark. "Spread them out, isolate the caster," Talia called as they moved forward in a swift but measured stride: Shale, she, Alistair and Sten in front, taking the brunt of the ranged attack, Wynne's protective magic rippling around them to counter the emissary's spells and Leliana's arrows demonstrating why the longbow was preferred by Fereldan archers. Two genlocks fell before Talia felt the first arrow from one of their short-bows shatter against her shield.

"Now!" she shouted, and the trot became a run. Leliana and the mages stayed back, just out of range of the short-bows, while Zevran and Brego raced at the heels of the more heavily armored fighters, taking advantage of the cover they provided until they had closed to melee distance.

Their first charge was solely to break up the tight formation of their opponents and disrupt the ranged attack and the spell-caster On the final running steps, Talia and Alistair drew together, bracing their shields into a wedge and putting their full momentum behind it, plowing through the assembled darkspawn with Sten and Shale's masses completing the disruption.

After bursting through on the other side, they spun apart, Alistair moving to challenge the alpha with a savage cry while Talia's eyes sought out the emissary, who was picking itself up off the ground, its eyes fixed on Leliana and the two mages as it began to cast again. She was on it before it had completed more than a few guttural syllables, once again grateful that spell-casters rarely wore armor of any kind. It screeched in pain, dark blood splattering her armor as three brutal strikes cut it down. With the emissary dead and their commander engaged, the remaining darkspawn fell into their customary undisciplined frenzy, and were easily cut down.

By the time they had finished off the grunts, Alistair had all but defeated the alpha; it was stronger, but he was faster and more skilled, and 'smart' by darkspawn standards was still a long way from human intelligence. He feinted left, then spun right, his shield smashing into the already staggering hurlock and his sword sweeping down to bite into the tendons behind a knee, then reversing and coming back up to slice through the neck as the creature sank to the ground.

"What is it?" Talia asked as he knelt over his fallen opponent and began tugging at the body, his expression set into grim lines.

"These were the King's," he snarled, pulling the golden gauntlets free from the hurlock's misshapen claws. Nodding, she accepted them, slipping them into the rucksack on her back.

"We can return them to the Queen someday," she promised him, but the thought slipped away as she stepped past him, scanning the towering granite walls and marble columns around them, memories trying to superimpose themselves over the desiccated corpses and shattered furnishings and fortifications.

She knew this place.

"I hope we can find the rest," he said, pushing himself to his feet. "I hate to think of these things wearing the his armor like -" he trailed off as he followed her. "This is -"

"Yes." She moved forward, the memories coming harder now, pushing through the haze.

" _Join us brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows were we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be foresworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten and that one day, we, shall join you."_

_Duncan, solemn and stern, holding out the cup of darkspawn blood: the blood they had brought back only hours before from the Korcari Wilds._

_Daveth stepping forward, his cocky stance not quite hiding his apprehension as he took the chalice and raised it to his lips, swallowing once, then lowering the cup to Duncan's waiting hands. He grimaced at the taste, then looked around in surprise, his expression plainly saying, Is that it?_

_Then he collapsed to his knees with a strangled cry, hunching over with his hands clutching at his gut, and when he threw his head back, his mouth open in a silent scream of agony, his eyes had gone completely white. His body quivered violently for what seemed forever, though only a few seconds passed before he pitched forward onto the ground, dead._

_"I am sorry, Daveth." Duncan stared down at the brash young thief's body with sorrow before turning to the next of the three recruits._

_"No." Jory held his hands before him, making no attempt to take the cup as he backed away, his wide eyes on the corpse at his feet. "I have a wife...a child...you never said -"_

_"There is no going back," Duncan intoned, his expression both gentle and implacable, urging, pleading. Alistair looked on, his face grave._

_"No!" Jory backed up further, sweeping his greatsword from its sheath and holding it before him. "I won't do it! You ask too much!"_

_Duncan never paused, passing the chalice to Alistair and drawing his dagger from its sheath in a smooth motion. He easily ducked around Jory's desperate swing, his blade entering just below the breastbone and angling upward._

_"I am sorry," the senior Warden said softly as he stepped away, letting the man from Highever fall to the stones beside Daveth._

_She stepped forward without hesitation, part of her hoping to die outright, as Daveth had done, the rest hoping to die in battle, to by some miracle find Rendon Howe in the midst of the combat and carve him into pieces while he begged for mercy. She took the cup, drank from it, drained it, barely aware of the bitter, foul taste and the burn as it rolled down her throat., waiting to die...or to live._

_Then the pain._

_Fire spreading from her gut, racing through her veins, sinking its claws into her bones: sharp and bright, deep and searing, it consumed her awareness until it was all that was left, burning her vision away until nothing was left but whiteness._

_And then, the archdemon. Huge, dark and sinuous, it loomed in her mind's eye, pinning her with its contemptuous, hate-filled eyes, its immense jaw dropping open to reveal rows of wicked teeth an instant before a gout of flame burst forth to engulf her. She tumbled back into darkness, hearing voices calling her name: far away, but growing closer._

_Talia? Talia?_

"Talia!"

She opened her eyes, found herself on her knees with Alistair and Leliana beside her. The other Warden's gaze was understanding, if a bit worried, but Leliana looked frightened.

"I'm all right." She let them help her to her feet, giving her head a little shake to clear it. "This was where the Joining took place." She caught Leliana's questioning glance and added, "Where I became a Grey Warden. There were three of us; I was the only one who survived."

"Talia..." She caught the warning note in Alistair's voice and scowled.

"Secrecy is why we're currently wandering around with no idea of how to kill an archdemon," she reminded him tersely.

"I get your point, but certain secrets are kept for a reason," he told her, with a subtle gesture to those behind them: Zevran, Sten, Morrigan...even Wynne. Each of them had purposes of their own, beyond their current task, and if this particular secret became widely known, recruiting would likely become even more difficult.

Talia nodded. "I'll tell you later," she whispered to the bard.

"Only if it won't get you into trouble," Leliana replied, though she looked pleased with the promise, and still more than a little worried.

Talia eyed Alistair challengingly, and he nodded slowly. "Her, all right...but none of the others, agreed?"

"Agreed." A flash of silver caught her eye, all but buried beneath the broken and burned timber of a shattered table. Kneeling down, her fingers closed around cool metal, and she lifted it, brushing the dust and ash from its surface.

"We'll likely be needing this, at some point," she said in a strained voice, holding it out to her fellow Warden. He took it, his eyes meeting hers, shared loss and pain flowing between them.

"Yes," he said awkwardly, accepting the Joining chalice and slipping it into the pouch at his hip. "I suppose we will." His lips twisted into a wry grin. "Once we figure out how to perform the ritual, anyway."

"Shouldn't be any shortage of darkspawn blood, anyway," Talia quipped, striding in the direction from which the pressure was the strongest. "Back into patrol formation."

Several short but bloody skirmishes later brought them into the heart of what had been the encampment, and also several more pieces of Cailan's armor, which had evidently been divided up among the higher ranking darkspawn.

"There's the statue," Alistair said, stepping over several darkspawn corpses as he strode toward the broken statue of Andraste, where Elric had said he had hidden the key that Cailan had entrusted him with. Dropping to his knees, he pushed aside the rubble from the shattered effigy, digging through the dirt beneath until he came up with a heavy brass key, elaborately grooved.

"Wynne?" The mage was staring at what remained of the encampment where Talia had first met her, her eyes distant and sad. She glanced up as Talia approached and offered her a sad smile.

"So many lost," she said softly, "and so many more fallen to Uldred's madness."

"With people like you and Irving remaining, the Circle will be rebuilt," Talia assured her, "and it will be as strong as it ever was."

"In time, perhaps," the mage sighed. "If the templars permit it, but such broodings are of no use right now." She pointed, her expression becoming decisive. "The King's encampment was this way."

Tents and their contents had long since been destroyed, but the royal strongbox remained, evidently too heavy to be carted off easily. The chest itself was made of solid iron that had once been overlaid with ebony and gold. The precious metal had been scraped away, the wood veneer shattered by countless efforts at breaching the strongbox, but the lock had held. Even Sten had to strain to tip it back upright.

Alistair crouched before it, his expression worried as he looked at the battered edges of the keyhole; it was plain that numerous attempts had been made to force the lock, but the key slid in easily, and with a faint snick, the lid of the chest released.

The strongbox had been well made; the contents were dry and unsoiled, if a bit jumbled. Laying across the top was a long bundle wrapped in red velvet. Lifting it out, Alistair unwrapped the velvet to reveal a long scabbard of crimson leather, ornately embossed with gold. The grip was of the same crimson leather, wound with gold wire, and the quillions and pommel were golden, the latter formed in the same shape of a dragon's head that adorned the dented breastplate that they had taken from the last hurlock commander they had killed.

Alistair swallowed, his expression a play of conflicting emotions as he lifted the blade from the chest. Maric's sword. The King's sword. His father's sword.

"Draw it," Talia urged him quietly. He glanced at her dubiously, but grasped the hilt and slid the sword from the sheath, the runes of enchantment shimmering brightly along the length of the shining steel.

"I heard Cailan say that he planned to slay the archdemon with it," she told him. "I think they'd both want you to use it."

He snorted. "Talia, Maric didn't even want me! And I don't think that Cailan even knew I existed."

"If he didn't want you, he had other options besides giving you to Eamon to raise," Talia replied. "He couldn't acknowledge you...not without making you a target for people wanting to use you to usurp the throne. He made certain you were cared for. And I think Cailan knew more than he let on. A blind man could see the resemblance between you, and he supported Duncan's decisions that were intended to keep you out of the fighting. Like it or not, you're heir to them both...and that sword is even better than Asturian's Might."

The last argument plainly swayed him more than any of the others; he nodded and unbuckled his sword belt, slipping off the blade he had obtained at Soldier's Peak and replacing it with Maric's sword. "I'm not wearing the armor, though," he warned her as he bent back over the chest, lifting out a number of leather sacks and setting them to the side, the faint jingle and the heft of them making it clear what they contained.

"How much do you think is here?" she asked in a hushed voice, untying the top of one and peering inside: nothing but sovereigns, gleaming golden in the sunlight.

"Enough to have left a sizable dent in the treasury," Alistair muttered, looking awed and almost guilty. "What would he have needed it for?"

"Mercenaries? Ransom?" Zevran suggested, leaning over Talia's shoulder to peer into the sack with interest. "Perhaps he was more aware of the seriousness of the situation than he let on. Such a sum would buy the services of several skilled companies."

"Loghain refused," Alistair replied with a grimace. "I heard he and Cailan arguing about it once; he said that Ferelden needed only patriots to defend her."

"A noble sentiment, if sufficient patriots can be found," the elf observed. "For a man with such a towering reputation, he seems remarkably shortsighted in vital areas. Or was he?"

"That's something I plan on asking him," Alistair said grimly, setting the sacks aside and pulling out a scroll case, slipping a sheet of parchment from within, scanning the writing on the page. "Cailan _was_ planning an alliance with Orlais!" he exclaimed. "This is a letter from the Orlesian Empress, offering her chevaliers, as well as the Orlesian Wardens!"

His eyes met Talia's, burning with anger as he passed her the parchment. They had both heard Loghain's refusal to accept aid from Orlais, even to wait for the arrival of the Grey Wardens from that nation.

_To his Majesty, King Cailan of Ferelden:_

_My Warden-Commander assures me that we face a Blight. This thing threatens us both, and we must work together to fight it, lest it devour all. Our two nations have not had a happy history, but that is all it is - history. It is the future that is at stake now. Let us put aside our father's disagreements so that we may secure a future for both our countries._

_My Chevaliers stand ready and will accompany the Grey Wardens of Orlais to Ferelden. At your word the might of Orlais will march to reinforce the Ferelden forces._

_Sincerely, Empress Celene I_

"The chevaliers are formidable warriors," Leliana said gravely, peering over Talia's shoulder as she read. "Their presence at the battle would have been no small boon."

"Damn that man!" Alistair drove a balled-up fist into the ground at his side. "And damn his prejudices!" He withdrew another piece of parchment and read it. "The Empress even planned to travel to Ferelden to create a formal alliance, once the Blight had been dealt with!"

He passed Talia the second document, and she held it beside the first, comparing the two:

_Cailan,_

_The visit to Ferelden will be postponed indefinitely, due to the darkspawn problem. You understand, of course? The darkspawn have odd timing, don't they? Let us deal with them first. Once that is done we can further discuss a permanent alliance between Orlais and Ferelden._

The first was highly formal: a perfect example of a diplomatic missive. The second was unmistakeably more casual in tone; oddly, it appeared to have been crumpled up at some point, then smoothed out again. _The first refers to him by his proper title, the second as simply 'Cailan'. Odd...though I suppose monarchs must get tired of being called by a title all the time; it would probably be nice to have someone who treated you as an equal, maybe even as a friend._

"Holy -" Alistair was staring at a third piece of parchment with wide eyes. "It's – it's from Arl Eamon," he stammered. "He was asking Cailan to wait for his own reinforcements from Redcliffe, and not to take the field with the Grey Wardens."

"That is not so surprising," Wynne offered. "Even before Loghain withdrew his forces, the danger was great, and many worried at the King putting himself at such risk when he had no heir."

"Yes, well, Eamon had something in mind for that, as well," Alistair replied, shaking his head slowly. "He advised Cailan to set Anora aside and find another wife in the interests of begetting a child."

Zevran gave a low whistle. "Would I be correct in assuming that the father of the current Queen of Ferelden would look less than favorably upon such a suggestion?"

"You'd be correct," Talia agreed somberly, "assuming he knew about it." The look that passed between she, Wynne and Alistair was grave. If Loghain had known of it, it would have been a strong motive to want the King dead. Even the existence of the missive could be a powerful weapon against Loghain, if they chose to use it.

"Cailan wouldn't have told him," Alistair said, running his fingers through his hair, his eyes troubled, "but that doesn't mean he didn't find it on his own." Taking the parchment back from Talia, he slipped all three back into the case, tucked it back into the strongbox and then began replacing the sacks of sovereigns. When only one remained out, he wrapped Asturian's Might in the velvet that Maric's blade had been swathed in and laid it in the chest, then closed and locked it once more, slipping the key into the pouch at his hip.

"What are we going to do with it all?" Talia asked, watching him closely.

He sighed. "We'll keep this," he gestured at the one sack of gold that he hadn't put in the strongbox, "to help with our expenses. We'll take the box and everything in it to Arl Eamon, along with Cailan's armor. It should be returned to the Crown someday." Standing, he looked up at Shale. "You are the only one of us strong enough to carry the chest when we leave here. Would you, please?"

The golem regarded him in silence for a long moment, then gave a resonant chuckle. "It is odd, the difference that simple courtesies make, is it not? Odder still that such human foibles should matter at all to me, and yet...yes, I will carry it. But only so far as Redcliffe, mind you."

"Agreed," Alistair said with a smile. "And thank you." Bending, he picked up the remaining sack of gold, hefting it experimentally in one hand. "It would probably be easiest to divide the coin up equally among us...lighter, at least. There's easily a couple dozen sovereigns apiece in here, so don't spend it all in one -" His voice trailed off, his eyes widening as he stared past them, out onto the broad stone walk atop the great bridge that connected the two halves of the fortress across the gorge below.

"Maker, no!" The words tore from him in a breathless groan, and the sack of gold dropped to the ground as he sprinted away from them, toward the bridge.

"Alistair, wait!" Talia shouted, but he gave no sign that he heard her. "Come on and stay together!" she told the others, running after him with sword in hand.

The bridge had taken a severe beating from the siege engines of the darkspawn. As she ran, Talia remembered how she had been thrown to the ground by the violent impact of boulders as big as oxen crashing into the walls, and the blazing casks of pitch that had shattered when they had struck, covering stones and men alike in flames that were all but impossible to extinguish. The bodies of fallen defenders and darkspawn, reduced by time and scavengers to rotting armor clinging to ragged bone, littered the length of the bridge. Dodging to the side as she felt a crumbling section of the walk giving way beneath her feet, she ran on, her eyes shifting between Alistair's form and the wall beyond, looking for danger and paying no attention to whatever had drawn him so rashly until -

"Son of a -" She stared up at the framework of burnt timbers that had been lashed together in a crude 'X', and at the body of the King of Ferelden, which had been cruelly secured to the frame by spears driven through his arms, legs and chest. Though it had been months since the battle, there was no sign of decay; Cailan's head drooped forward onto his chest, eyes closed as if asleep, his face slack in death. The mutual stamp of their sire was even easier to see now that she knew it was there, and she had to look away; the dead face looked far too much like Alistair's for comfort.

"He – he doesn't look like he'd been dead more than a day." Alistair turned to her, his eyes haunted. "Could he have been alive all this time, being tortured by these things?"

"They would likely have done it, had they been able," Morrigan stated, stepping forward to examine the corpse with an expression of clinical interest. "But they did not. 'Tis the necromantic arts at work here, keeping his body from decay."

Talia stared at her in bafflement. Necromancy? From the darkspawn? Behind her, Leliana knelt, her head bowed in prayer, murmuring the words of the Chant:

_"For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light_

_And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."_

"We've got to get him down from there," Alistair choked out. "He's the King of Ferelden; he deserves a proper funeral pyre."

"Alistair, I don't think we have time." The pressure was growing again; couldn't he feel it all around them? And there was something else, as well...something different, and very near. "We got what we came for; we should get out of here."

She didn't like it. She'd met Cailan a handful of times at official functions, both before and after he had assumed the throne, and while they had never talked at length, her memories were of a high spirited and enthusiastic young man that bore little resemblance to the broken corpse overhead. Perhaps he hadn't been a great king, but he had deserved better than this. Dead was dead, though, and risking their lives by lingering to get him down and build a pyre wouldn't change that.

The hazel eyes that turned to her were anguished, but aware, and Alistair nodded. "You're right," he managed. "Let's get back to the strongbox and -" He lifted his head suddenly, his eyes widening as he stared past Talia, back the way they had come. At the same time, Talia's attention was drawn by movement at the far end of the wall.

Too late.

"Form up!" she shouted, adjusting her grip on the handle of her shield and brandishing Starfang as she stepped around Alistair and settled into a defensive stance, her eyes taking the measure of the darkspawn that were pouring onto the walkway. "Sten and Shale, take the rear, Alistair with me, ranged stay in the center." Instinct screamed at her to charge, to go on the offensive. She resisted, forcing calmness into her voice. "Stay together and let them come to us. Don't let them separate us. As soon as they come into range -"

"They're mine." Leliana's voice, cool and controlled. Retrieving her arrows after battle was an automatic act, and Talia knew without looking that her quiver would be full.

"Ours," Morrigan corrected her, the faint crackle of energy audible as she readied a spell.

Talia risked a glance over her shoulder as Alistair moved into position beside her. The numbers at the opposite end of the wall were smaller, which made sense, given all the killing they had done on that side, but there were still at least half a dozen genlocks and hurlocks charging toward the qunari and golem at a lumbering run. Good; the lack of discipline meant that there was no alpha to contend with in that direction.

Those that she and Alistair faced were another matter; close to a score of darkspawn advanced in close formation, four abreast across the width of the bridge, and behind them -

Talia frowned, daring to lower her shield enough to take a closer look. The headdress that it wore and the lack of armor marked the genlock as a spell-caster, as did the weaving motions its hands made as it shaped the magic to its will, though the lashed-together arrangement of stick and bone that adorned its misshapen head seemed more elaborate than those of other emissaries she had seen. An indication of rank or power, perhaps? Its eyes, seeming to burn in their deep sockets, met hers for a long moment as the motions ended with a flourish and a snarling shout, then it turned and darted away with a mocking laugh.

_What the -?_

"Talia!" Leliana's horrified cry drew her attention from the fleeing genlock mage to the bridge before them, where the bones of the dead were rising to their feet, skeletal fingers reaching out to curl around the hilts of rusted weapons.

"It seems we have met the necromancer," Morrigan observed calmly, sending a fireball sailing past Talia to explode among the ranks of the risen dead. Bones flew in all directions and, to Talia's relief, showed no sign of reassembling. "But his range is limited; none have risen beyond our position."

Behind her, Talia could hear the crash of Sten and Shale meeting the charge of their attackers, but she did not turn around. Half a dozen arrows arced skyward from the ranks of the darkspawn advance, but a swiftly cast spell from Wynne shattered them midair, and Leliana's bow began to thrum as her arrows sang through the air, finding the smallest gaps between the darkspawn shields and biting deep. Roars rose up from behind the shield wall, and their pace increased as they were joined by the skeletons that Morrigan's spell had not destroyed.

"Ready?" she asked Alistair in a low voice, catching his nod from the corner of her eye. With the addition of the necromancer's creations, they could no longer wait until the enemy closed with them; they had to give Leliana and the mages enough space in which to act.

"Brego, guard!" she shouted as they launched themselves forward as one. The mabari would take on any that made it past them. Alistair knew what to do as well as she did: the bridge was narrow, giving the darkspawn little room to go around them, and each of them was easily a match for two. They slammed into the shield wall, knocking the leaders back into the ranks behind, but made no attempt to push through.

Starfang lashed out, opening the throat of a genlock in a gout of black blood. It fell, and another one lunged forward to take its place, but got tangled up with yet another trying to do the same. A sweep of her shield broke a skeleton to pieces, its sword skittering harmlessly down the plates that protected her arm. She drew the shield back and slammed it into the darkspawn, sending them staggering into each other for a brief instant before her blade took the throat out of one and bit deep into the chest of the other, their bodies held upright by the press of those behind them. Beside her, Alistair was using similar tactics, turning the tight quarters and their own numbers against the darkspawn as arrows and spells further evened the odds.

"Get down!" Neither of them hesitated at Morrigan's shouted command, dropping to the ground as Wynne's protective magics washed over them. The spell would protect them from the heat, but not the -

_FWOOM!_

\- impact of a fireball. Curled beneath her shield, Talia waited until the pressure wave had passed, then rolled to her feet. More than a few of their opponents had simply been blown off the edge of the bridge, and the remainder were either stunned or preoccupied with the fact that they were on fire. The fight ended quickly after that, particularly when Sten and Shale joined the fray, having dispatched their own foes.

"We must go after it," Wynne said, her expression hard as she stared in the direction that the necromancer had vanished.

"I thought the idea was to get what we came for and get out?" Alistair asked, planting his foot on the chest of the last hurlock he'd killed and wrenching his sword free.

"That depends," Morrigan replied, nudging a skull with a foot, her golden eyes appraising, "on whether or not you would prefer to fight only the darkspawn in days to come, or the risen bodies of their dead and yours, as well?"

The two Wardens exchanged a glance. It was an unspoken but generally reliable rule that when Wynne and Morrigan agreed on _anything_ , it was best to pay attention.

"Good point," Alistair agreed with a grimace, "but do you really think that the one we saw is the only one there is?"

"Perhaps," the witch said, shrugging, "perhaps not. This would seem to be an ideal place to practice and perfect the command of such magic, but even if there are others, defeating this one will provide us with the knowledge of how to better counter those we may meet in the future."

"We go after him, then," Talia said, when his eyes turned back to her, "but let's get everyone healed up first." She could still feel the presence of darkspawn, and she had little doubt that there would be more corpses for their nemesis to utilize. Surveying the group, she was pleased to find only minor injuries.

Leliana's hands reached up to slide her helmet off, a hand beneath her chin tilting her head to expose the shallow cut on her neck, just above the top of her gorget. She winced, surprised at the sting. "Where did that come from?"

"An arrow that would have skewered you, had it been a couple of inches to the left," the bard replied crisply, but her fingers were gentle as they smoothed healing salve along the length of the wound. Talia closed her eyes with a sigh of relief. The pain hadn't been bad, but the Orlesian's touch was soothing, lingering even after the injury healed. The Warden opened her eyes, feeling an odd fluttering in the pit of her stomach as she met Leliana's gaze.

"Are you all right?" she asked, unable to look away from the warm concern in her friend's eyes and unsure exactly why.

"Not a scratch." Leliana smiled at her, and the fluttering sensation intensified. "My Wardens protected me well."

Talia had to smile at that. "Just returning the favor." The bard's arrows had accounted for as many darkspawn as either of their swords.

"Yes." Leliana nodded, lowering her hand. "That is what friends do, no?"

"That they do," Talia agreed, still staring into the crystalline blue eyes, trying to figure out what was changing...what _had_ changed. It had started after the near-disaster in Haven, and continued through their stay at Redcliffe. Now it seemed that Leliana was seldom far from her side; when she was, Talia found her gaze turning, instinctively seeking out the bard, only to discover the other woman's eyes similarly searching for her. It was more than the fearful over-protectiveness that had beset her in the first days following Leliana's recovery, but -

"Ready?" Alistair's voice startled her out of her ponderings. She jammed her helmet back onto her head and turned to find her friend watching her with an odd smile on his face.

"What?"

"Nothing," he replied, still smiling as he took up his shield and drew Maric's blade again.

She glared at him suspiciously as she mirrored his actions, but let it slide away as they began to advance toward the far side of the bridge. As expected, more than darkspawn awaited them; they caught fleeting glances of the necromancer as he raised wave after wave of corpses to join the ranks of their living foes, but he was always too far away for either Leliana or the mages to reach him. They encountered more of the genlock ambushers as they advanced, but the two Wardens soon learned to sense the subtle difference of their proximity, and fireballs never failed to flush them out of their concealment.

"Dammit, Morrigan!" Talia snarled, shoving a frozen hurlock off her sword and shaking her shoulders to dislodge the thick layer of frost that coated her armor. Cone of cold was a useful spell, but one that did not distinguish between friend and foe.

"I cannot cast around you," the witch replied without a hint of contrition.

"He was already dead!"

"And should I pause to check for a pulse before casting, or simply refrain from aiding you with my spells?"

Talia glowered at her for a moment, then stalked onward, muttering under her breath.

"She does that on purpose, you know," Alistair informed her. "You notice it only happens when we're at the tail end of a fight?"

"Oh, I've noticed," Talia assured him irritably, "and why am I not surprised that we're ending up here?"

The tower of Ishal rose before them, its walls blackened and battered. They'd seen the necromancer vanishing into the doors at the base of the tower just as they had entered into the last battle with his creations.

"There is a certain feeling on inevitability to it," he agreed, their eyes meeting for a long moment. This was where it had truly begun. Though they had first met two days before the battle, it had been during the desperate fight to the top of the tower, a 'safe' assignment turned into a deadly race against time, that the bonds that held them together now had first been forged in blood and fear and fire. Two frightened recruits had stood before these doors nearly seven months ago; two seasoned Grey Wardens approached them with grim determination now.

Alistair cast a glance over his shoulder at the sun, which had reached its zenith some time ago, and was well advanced toward the western horizon. "Got to move fast."

"I wasn't planning on sightseeing," Talia quipped, turning her attention to the others, giving them a quick description of what she remembered as the layout of the tower.

Inside, they encountered more of the same, fighting their way through the first floor until they stood before the stairway leading upward. Beside them gaped the hole in the earth through which the darkspawn had entered the tower on the day of the battle.

"Up or down?" Zevran asked with his usual aplomb, though even he was beginning to show signs of fatigue.

"Down," Talia and Alistair said at the same time. There was no need to confirm with each other; the pull from below was too strong. Descending carefully over the slope of crumbling earth and loose stone, they soon found themselves within what must have been the catacombs of the original fortress and facing the inhabitants of the dusty niches and shattered sarcophagi that the necromancer had awakened in his flight, along with spiders grown to monstrous size from the darkspawn taint.

"Drink," Wynne ordered Talia, pressing a small vial to her lips, The Warden obeyed without question; the antidote was bitter, but her vision was already blurring from the poison that had been injected by a bite that had pierced the plate of her leg armor. After she finished it, she closed her eyes, leaning against a pillar and waiting for the unsteadiness to pass while the mage saw to the others who had been bitten: Zevran and Sten seemed to be the only ones.

She felt a supporting shoulder at her side, and was not surprised to feel Leliana's arm slipping around her waist as she stood upright. "I'm fine," she assured the worried bard. "Just took a couple of minutes to work, that's all."

"Rest while you can," Leliana advised her, fingering the two holes that had been punched through the steel plate with a frown.

"Mikhail's not going to be pleased with you," Alistair commented as he made his way over to them. "Or me, for that matter," he added, glancing down at the numerous dents that covered his own armor.

"Better that the armor take the damage than you," Leliana replied seriously, leaning into Talia, her blue eyes shadowed.

"Are you all right?" Talia glanced down at her in sudden concern. "You didn't get bitten, did you?"

"No." The bard shook her head. "It just seems so...so wrong that the final rest of these warriors should be defiled by that creature, that we should have to fight those who have already given their lives to defend this place."

"But it's not really them that we're fighting, are we?" Talia asked her. "If their souls have gone to the Maker, then what is left are just empty shells."

"This is true," Leliana agreed, giving her a wan but grateful smile. "I must try to remember that, though it is still unnerving."

"To say the least," Alistair concurred, turning his head as the sound of advancing footsteps began to echo from the tunnel that disappeared into the earth beyond the shattered stone wall of the room. "Maker, you'd think he'd run out of lyrium sometime."

"He's certainly not going to run out of corpses," Talia muttered as she stepped away from Leliana and brought up her shield. Morrigan had been right; Ostagar was the ideal place for a necromancer to perfect that dark art. "Incoming," she called out in a low voice as she and Alistair moved into position directly in front of the shadowed entrance to the tunnel. "Let's try to keep them bottlenecked. Wynne, set a ward to the rear." She couldn't sense anything close in that direction, but that didn't mean they couldn't be attacked from behind while they were dealing with the frontal assault.

Slowly, shapes began to emerge from the shadow, and Talia felt her breath catch in her throat as she recognized the battered armor. She'd barely had the chance to meet most of the other Grey Wardens before the battle had been entered, but the gryphons on the breastplates and shields were something she remembered well. Unlike most of the other risen corpses they had been facing, these seemed to have been preserved by the same magic that had kept Cailan from decay, though their eyes were glazed in death, faces devoid of emotion and the wounds that had killed them on ghastly display.

Talia felt her resolve faltering. Her words to Leliana had sounded perfectly reasonable when they were speaking of decades-old bones and corpses that were unrecognizable, but to find herself facing the visages of allies that she had known, however briefly -

"No." It took her a moment to realize that the denial had come not from her, but from Alistair. He was backing away, his wide eyes fixed on a tall, dark-haired figure at the center of the advancing horde. "No, no, NO!"

_Oh, shit!_ "Sten, close the gap!" she shouted, her own trepidation forgotten as she stepped forward to engage the closest: a long-faced man that she thought had been named Garvin. "Alistair, it's not them!" she screamed as she easily parried the dead man's attack. Sten was carving his way through his side of the mob, Asala sweeping like a scythe, and magic and arrows sang in the air, the quarters too close for spells like fireballs, but the risen dead dropping swiftly, all the same. "You really think Wardens would fall this easily?" She took the head off Garvin in a single, savage sweep, then moved to take on the next. "It's that darkspawn messing with our heads, now _fight_ , damn it!"

For several heartbeats, she feared that her words were having no effect, but then he charged past her with a shout, bulling his way through the front ranks until he was facing what had once been Duncan. The Warden-Commander's face had been ravaged by carrion crows, the white of his skull visible in places, and it was all too clear how he had died: a single, massive cut had shattered his armor and cleaved into his chest, leaving a ruin of blackened viscera and dried blood.

"You're not him!" Alistair yelled, hacking furiously at his opponent, making no effort to evade the clumsy blows that slid off his shield and armor. "You're! Not! Him!" Each word was punctuated by another blow, until the ghoul dropped to the stone floor, unmoving. Without pause, he stepped over the corpse to attack another, a bearded giant named Greagor who had figured largely in the stories he'd told at camp in the evenings. There was no trace of the broad smile that he'd spoken of: only a gash that all but obliterated the Warden's face. He, too, went down quickly before Alistair's fury, the others falling with similar ease to the rest of them, but before Talia could pause to catch her breath, Alistair had taken off at a dead run down the tunnel.

"Come on!" She sprinted after him, trusting that the others would follow. The tunnel curved steadily downward before ending suddenly in open air at the base of the fortress.

"Alistair, wait, dammit!" she shouted, but he gave no sign that he had heard.

"He's finally lost his mind," Morrigan declared, glaring after the rapidly vanishing Warden for a moment before shimmering into the form of a wolf and racing after him. Talia and the others followed as quickly as they were able, and soon found themselves on the plain before the fortress where the disastrous battle had taken place.

Skeletons, human and darkspawn alike, were rising from the ground, but Alistair simply knocked them aside in passing, his focus locked on the lone figure that stood at the point where the plain narrowed into the gorge over which Ostagar had been built. The necromancer watched him come with a savage grin, hands gyrating in a complex swirl of gestures. Morrigan shifted back into her own form, her hands ablaze with barely leashed power.

Talia saw the ogre first, rising from the ground where it had fallen in death, saw it gain its feet and charge toward Alistair, surprisingly swift, despite the weapons that remained embedded in its flesh.

"Alistair!" she shouted again, knowing that it was a wasted effort. "Sten, Shale, with me! The rest of you take out the others!"

She ran forward, her eyes locked on the massive creature that was bearing down on her friend. He hadn't seen it...wouldn't see it until it was upon him. She redoubled her speed, heart racing, each breath burning in her chest, leaving her larger and slower companions behind. There was no chance that she could knock it over, but -

She twisted, driving forward with her shield and slamming into the ogre when it was only a few strides away from the other Warden. She didn't knock it over, or even off balance, but she did succeed in drawing its attention to her. Bouncing off of its bulk, she landed on her back, rolling away just in time to evade the crushing stomp of a giant foot. The qunari and the golem arrived a moment later, giving her the chance to regain her feet.

Fighting a live ogre was a task that generally required the cooperation of the entire party, but the flares and detonations of magic behind her made it clear that the mages were fully occupied by the necromancer's other creations, and Leliana, Brego and Zev would be protecting them.

Alistair had reached the necromancer, who didn't seem to have been prepared for an up-close assault; it had to be running low on mana by now, and the enraged Warden wasn't going to give it time to reach any lyrium it had.

Shale stood toe to toe with the ogre, exchanging shattering blows that neither of them seemed to feel, fire rippling over the golem's form with each strike and the stench of burning flesh joining the smell of rot that rolled off the beast in waves. Sten carved great slices in the creature's flank, while Talia circled around to the rear, trying to sever the tendons at the back of the tree-trunk sized legs. It wasn't as easy as it looked: the ogre's flesh had hardened in death; how it could have moved so quickly was a mystery, because cutting at it was like chopping wood, sending great, bloodless pieces of flesh flying in all directions.

Suddenly, Shale stumbled backward into a hole that had been left by one of the siege engines, falling with an impact that shook the ground. With a bellow of triumph, the ogre sent Sten flying with a brutal backhand, and then it was turning to face Talia.

_Not good._ She dodged one strike, caught a second, glancing blow on her shield, staggering backward, trying to keep her weight on the balls of her feet, anticipate the next move. She could see Shale struggling to rise; the golem was hard to topple, but once down, he was much like a turtle on its back. Sten was recovering more quickly, but the ogre was still advancing on Talia. Giving up on retreating (it had never been one of her strong points, anyway), she darted forward, trying to take out a knee, but found herself caught in the grasp of a clawed fist, being shaken the way a terrier would shake a rat. Her head rocked violently on her shoulders, sword and shield tumbling from her grasp, and she saw the other fist come up to begin the merciless pounding that would leave bones crushed and organs ruptured.

Then it stopped. Its grip on her loosened, letting her drop to the ground. She lay with the wind knocked out of her, her brain still feeling as though it was rattling in her skull, staring upward as it swayed on its feet for a long moment, then crumpled back to the earth, motionless once more. Looking around, she saw that what remained of the other risen dead were also collapsing. She forced herself to her hands and knees, feeling the beginning of aches and pains that were really going to be talking to her by nightfall.

The necromancer was down, its death evidently ending the magic that had animated its minions, but Alistair had not slowed his attack, flailing away at the corpse in a frenzy, half coherent curses tumbling from his lips.

_Maker, is that what I look like?_

Scrambling to her feet, she retrieved her sword and shield, knowing better than to approach him without that protection in hand.

"Alistair, it's dead! It's over!" He didn't respond, continuing to hack at the necromancer, blood and severed body parts going every which way. She moved closer, reached out with the hand holding her sword to punch him hard on the shoulder. "Alistair!"

He spun, his face suffused with rage, sword coming around in a fast but clumsy arc that she intercepted easily with her own. They stood frozen for a long moment, eyes and weapons locked as awareness slowly seeped back into his face, followed by horrified dismay.

"Talia?" Maric's blade dropped from his fingers. "Oh, Maker, Talia, I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" He kept repeating the words as his knees wavered beneath him, but she let her own sword and shield fall to the ground and stepped forward to support him, the combined weight of their armor sinking them both to their knees.

"It's all right," she whispered earnestly, pressing her forehead to his. "You did it. You killed the bastard. You killed it."

"I didn't want to fight them," he cried out miserably, tears spilling from his eyes. "I didn't want to fight Duncan! I knew it wasn't him, I..." he shook his head, his mouth working soundlessly for a moment. "I knew it, but it still felt like - Maker, I didn't want to! I didn't want to fight him!"

She drew his head down to her shoulder, holding him as his grief overwhelmed him. He'd gotten misty-eyed and maudlin more than once, thinking of Duncan and the other Grey Wardens, but he had never allowed himself to surrender to the full weight of his sorrow. Knowing well that no words could ease what he was feeling, she let him cry, feeling tears running down her own cheeks, wondering if her own pain would ever manage to fully break free of the cage she had built around it. She wasn't sure she wanted it to, or at least, wasn't sure that she wanted to know what it would take at this point.

Looking around, she found their companions drawn near, watching them in silence. Leliana's expression was an odd mix of concern, compassion and something else that Talia could not quite identify, but she responded immediately to the warrior's summoning gesture, kneeling beside the two Wardens and wrapping her arms around Alistair, murmuring soft reassurances. A moment later, Wynne joined them, kneeling carefully on the opposite side to hug him. Brego approached and butted Alistair gently with his broad head; the others maintained a respectful distance, and Morrigan for once had no acerbic comments to offer.

"You did a very good thing today," Wynne told him after his tears had tapered off, tipping his chin up to look into his eyes. "A very brave thing. Duncan and the other Wardens would be proud of you."

He swallowed, wiping his cheeks with the back of one hand, looking uncertain and even more boyish than usual. "Do you really think so?"

"Without any doubt," Leliana put in with a smile. "They would not have wanted their earthly remains to be bound to the service of evil. You destroyed that foul creature; it will never again enslave the dead to its will."

He nodded slowly, clearly heartened by the words. "We all did it," he said quietly, his eyes seeking out Talia's, as always, looking for the final confirmation. At her nod, the last of the tension seeped from him, and he drew himself upright, looking around the field of battle, then up to the sinking sun. "It's getting late."

"Yes," Talia agreed as they all rose to their feet, "but...do you feel it?"

Alistair lifted his head, frowning in concentration, then nodded. "They've pulled back. Either that, or we killed everything in the area."

"It damn sure feels like we did," Talia agreed, rolling her shoulders and wincing at the growing soreness that was settling into the muscles.

"We've got time, then?" he asked her hopefully.

She paused, reaching out once more and finding only a faint pressure at the edges of her awareness, well to the south. "We do," she told him, turning to the others. "Alistair and I will go and get King Cailan," she told them. "Zev, Sten and Shale, please bring the bodies of the Grey Wardens out to..." her eyes searched until they fell on a point just below the arch of the bridge that spanned the gorge, "that spot," she said, pointing. "The rest of you, gather all the wood you can find and bring it there."

She met Alistair's eyes again, seeing the last of the guilt and despair replaced by a resolve that mirrored her own. "It's time for the Grey Wardens to give proper honor to our dead."


	26. Moonlight And Flowers

"You're sure there's a stream this way?" Talia asked, ducking beneath a low-hanging branch as she followed Leliana along a narrow game trail.

"Of course, I'm sure," the bard replied confidently. "That's the advantage of not having all that armor clanking about: you can actually hear things like water running."

"It's not that loud," the warrior protested, catching the strap of one of the waterskins as it tried to slide from her shoulder. "And even if it was, the advantages more than make up for it." She tapped on the steel of the breastplate, the solid ring echoing in the quiet of the forest around them.

"There is that," Leliana agreed, glancing back at the Warden with a smile. She, Alistar and Sten had taken most of a day to repair the worst of the damage that had been done to their armor in the fighting at Ostagar. A trip to Soldier's Peak and the skills of Mikhail Dryden would have to wait; the keep was far to the north, and their current destination, the Brecilian forest and the Dalish elves, lay to the east. The armor was serviceable, but enough evidence remained of the damage that it had absorbed to make the bard shudder if she looked too long at it.

"Are you sure you can find it in the dark? Maybe we should look in the morning."

"The sun's barely set," Leliana replied in amusement. The full moon was filtering through the branches overhead, autumn leaves already beginning to tumble to the ground, opening even more gaps in the canopy. She could see the well worn trail before her clearly, but Talia was not as accustomed to moving around at night. "Is the mighty Grey Warden afraid of a few shadows?"

"The mighty Grey Warden is afraid of falling into the water in full plate," Talia retorted, though Leliana could tell from her voice that she was smiling.

"We'll have found it, then, won't we?" she replied pertly, relieved that the warrior didn't seem to be serious about returning just yet. After leaving Ostagar and the Korcari Wilds, they had taken the strongbox back to Redcliffe, then trekked four days across the Southron Hills, and had only just reached the westernmost edge of the forest. During that time, she'd had almost no chance to be alone with Talia, and had eagerly seized on the excuse of refilling the group's near-empty waterskins to get the two of them away from camp for a bit.

It was foolishness, she knew, but she had grown accustomed to having Talia to herself for long stretches of time at Redcliffe, and she missed it, missed talking with Talia, having the girl listening attentively to her stories and songs, or simply sitting with her in comfortable silence.

And their dance. The dance haunted her dreams: Talia's arms around her, the music filling the air, and in the dreams, she didn't turn away, but kissed Talia, and Talia kissed her in return, tender and passionate, and she would wake with her heart racing, the feel of Talia's lips against hers and a hollow ache of longing in her chest, her tent feeling emptier than ever.

Maker forgive her, but she had been jealous at Ostagar: jealous of the bond that Talia and Alistair so obviously shared, the memories of experiences and events that she had not been present for and could never know, and the way they had turned almost instinctively to each other for support. When the girl had gone to Alistair at the end, holding him, comforting him, Leliana had been torn in a way that she had never before experienced.

It had been exactly what she'd wanted, after all...or what she'd thought she wanted once. They would make such an adorable couple, and be so good for each other, and yet, she'd barely been able to breathe as she stood watching them. She'd hated herself for that feeling, was ashamed that it had taken Talia's prompting to move her to offer Alistair the comfort that he so plainly needed. Nor could she suppress her feelings of relief as the passing days revealed nothing deeper than a strengthening of the sibling-like affection between the two Wardens.

At the same time, she had caught Talia watching her more than once, her expression thoughtful and faintly puzzled. So far, the girl had said nothing, but then, there had been almost no opportunity for her to do so; they had been constantly in the company of the others, and since Shale always took one of the two positions on night watch, having no need for sleep, there had not even been that chance for them to be alone. Still, those questioning glances were enough to quicken her heart and spark the faintest beginnings of a hope that she barely dared to entertain.

"I think we're getting close," Talia said behind her.

"What makes you say that?" Leliana could hear the faintest gurgle of the stream, but she rather doubted that Talia was aware of it yet. Pushing a low branch out of her way, she stepped into a small clearing, releasing the branch as she passed.

"Ow!" Turning, the bard saw Talia straightening up with one hand to her mouth. "That hurt!"

"Well, what were you doing down there, anyway?" Leliana inquired, feeling a bit contrite. She'd figured that the Warden's armor would have deflected the branch with little trouble; she hadn't been expecting Talia to be bending over.

"I found these." Talia stepped into the clearing, holding out the hand that wasn't covering her mouth, and Leliana immediately recognized the delicate flowers glowing a soft white in the moonlight amidst the fernlike leaves. Andraste's Grace, which grew near water; that was how Talia had realized they were approaching the stream.

It was not an unusual gesture; the Warden always brought the blossoms to Leliana whenever she found them now, but it was still enough to set butterflies aflutter in her stomach. "Thank you, Talia." She reached out for the flowers, but she couldn't keep the smile of amusement from her lips, and Talia pulled her hand back.

"I get wounded picking you flowers, and you laugh at me?" She was trying to sound insulted, but the gleam in her eyes betrayed her mirth.

"Wounded?" The bard couldn't help a giggle. "You get beat on by darkspawn from dawn to dusk, and you're complaining about a little swat from a twig?"

"It was a branch!" Talia corrected her indignantly. "And it's going to swell. Look, it's bleeding!" She held up her hand, which did indeed show the faintest smear of crimson from her lower lip, where a tiny split had been opened.

The giggle swelled into a laugh. "Maker's breath! Everyone thinks you Grey Wardens are such fearless warriors; if they only knew what babies you really are! Shall I kiss it and make it better for you, my poor, wounded Warden?" _Maker, where did_ _ **that**_ _come from?_

"Oh, would you, please?" Talia was laughing now, too, but as their eyes met in the moonlight, the laughter trailed away into a silence that swelled to surround them. The wind in the trees, the chirping of crickets, the broken snippets of conversation from the direction of camp: all of it faded until the only thing that Leliana could hear was the faint whisper of Talia's breath and the pounding of her own heart in her ears.

"My -" The bard's mouth was suddenly bone dry, and she swallowed before she could continue. "My mother always said that a kiss was the best cure for any hurt."

"Mine, too," Talia replied softly, her eyes a fathomless ebony in the silver moonlight, that curious, questioning look back in them, making the butterflies in Leliana's stomach grow to the size of small birds.

Her hand slipped into the pouch at her hip, withdrawing a handkerchief as she stepped forward. "This might hurt a bit."

Talia nodded wordlessly, her eyes never leaving Leliana's as the bard reached up to daub gently at the 'injury'. She didn't flinch as Leliana cleaned the bit of blood away, then stepped in closer, rising onto tiptoe to press a delicate kiss to the Warden's lower lip.

_Oh, Maker._ A rush of warmth suffused her at the soft touch of Talia's skin, the mingling heat of their breath, the scent of the flowers that the Warden still held. Talia remained motionless, but Leliana could feel the faintest tremor move through her, the undeniable frisson of the contact making her head spin.

She dared to let the kiss linger for a moment longer, then drew back slowly, watching the warrior's face. She looked almost stunned, her wide, dark eyes making her resemble nothing so much as a doe caught by surprise in the moonlight.

"Better?" she asked, praying that she had not been too bold.

Talia blinked slowly, looking like one awakening from a dream, and when her eyes focused again on the bard, it was as though she were seeing her for the first time: surprise and wonder, and a sudden intensity that made the spark of hope in Leliana's chest kindle into a small but joyous flame.

The Warden nodded silently, then seemed to remember that she could speak. "Yes," she said, a tiny hint of unsteadiness in her voice as she held out the flowers once more. "Much better."

The bard took the flowers, her fingers brushing lightly against Talia's to send a fresh wave of warmth surging over her. And still, she could not look away from Talia's steady gaze.

_This...this is what falling in love is like._ The realization drifted through her mind like clouds across the face of the moon overhead. Marjolaine had swept her off her feet in a flood of emotions, immersed her in an irresistible swirl of passion and pleasure that never let her catch her breath. The pace of this dance, so slow and sweet, was unlike anything she had ever experienced, and she found herself wanting to savor each new step.

Instead of moving in for another kiss, she broke off a sprig of flowers from the bouquet in her hand and tucked it gently behind Talia's ear, the tiny white blossoms laying against her dark hair like stars in the night sky.

In turn, Talia reached out, breaking off another sprig. Hesitantly, as though unsure how it would be received, she carefully placed the flowers behind Leliana's ear, her fingers trailing softly along the bard's cheek as she withdrew her hand.

They stood close in the moonlight, neither touching nor looking away from each other until Leliana made herself say, "The stream is not far. We should probably get these skins filled and back to camp, no?"

"All right." Talia nodded, but her eyes remained steady on the Orlesian's face, and when Leliana shyly held out her hand, she took it readily, following as the bard led the way out of the clearing.


	27. A Kiss Between Friends

"Are you peeling that carrot for the stew pot or whittling it down into a stiletto?"

Morrigan's exasperated demand brought Talia's attention back to the task at hand. "Sorry," she mumbled, feeling her face flame with embarrassment as she looked down at the carrot that had been scraped to less than half of its original diameter. Laying it on the cutting board, she quickly sliced what remained and slid it into the iron cauldron.

The witch had been on edge since they had entered the Korcari Wilds, and was only slowly returning to her normal degree of snippiness as they put an ever greater distance back between her and her mother. After they had left Ostagar, Talia had offered to make good on her promise to kill Flemeth, but Morrigan had refused, fearing that her presence anywhere in the Wilds would be close enough for her mother's spirit to find and claim her body. She wondered if the witch was regretting that choice, though there was no denying that she had earned the reprimand. It wasn't as though her mind was anywhere close to the subject of cooking.

She dared a glance from the corner of her eye to where Leliana sat, repairing the fletching on her arrows. The faintest hint of a smile touched the full lips, though her attention was seemingly focused on her task.

_Damn it._ What did it mean?

They had stopped a bit earlier than usual when the bard had chanced to bring down a pair of rabbits that promised a welcome change from dried and salted meat, but Talia's plan to try to speak with Leliana had been blocked when she had been drafted as the cook's assistant. Not that she had any idea what she would have said, anyway.

Her mind had been utterly adrift since they'd parted last night, Leliana's fingers sliding slowly from her hand, the blue eyes holding hers for a moment longer before the bard turned away and stepped into her tent. Talia had stared after her in confusion. Was she supposed to follow? And if she did...what then? They had barely spoken since Leliana had kissed her, but the silence between them had been a comfortable one, the warmth of the Orlesian's hand in hers feeling right in a way that she couldn't even begin to understand, much less articulate.

But as soon as the bard was out of sight, the doubts began to creep in. Had the kiss been a simple gesture of friendship, something more, or nothing at all? It had barely even been a kiss, and what she'd thought she'd seen in Leliana's face could have been her imagination. In the end, she had gone to her own tent and spent the night in and out of a restless slumber, awakening in the morning absolutely convinced that she'd made a royal ass of herself the night before. Leliana had said nothing outside their usual morning banter while she had braided the Warden's hair, but the touch of her fingers had left Talia's heart hammering.

And of course, the one day she could have used the distraction had turned out to be one of the few days that they had encountered absolutely _nothing_ to fight, which had left her mind free to replay every detail of those few moments in the clearing, over and over: the bard's musical laugh, the way her hair had captured the moon's silver radiance with the dim fire of banked coals, the sudden vulnerability in her eyes, the soft press of her lips, even her smell...a mix of the familiar scent of Andraste's Grace and another, indefinable sweetness that Talia would forever associate with moonlight.

Moonlight and flowers. What in the Maker's name was happening to her?

"Oh, for the love of -" Morrigan snatched the second carrot from her hand, and Talia realized that she had shaved this one down even further. "Begone!" The witch took up the remaining carrots by their stems and beat the Warden over the head with them. "The _dog_ would be a greater help! Go and see if you can discover where you left your brain!"

Every third or fourth word was punctuated by another swing of the carrots, and Talia let herself be driven from the fireside, not even daring to look in Leliana's direction.

"An interesting choice of weapon," Zevran observed sagely. "I have heard of children being averse to eating their vegetables, but this would seem to be taking it to the extreme."

"We'd best hope the archdemon doesn't get wind of this," Alistair agreed with a smirk as he drew a whetstone along the edge of Duncan's sword. "We could find ourselves battling darkspawn armed to the teeth with carrots, turnips, rhubarb. Catapults throwing potatoes and eggplant. The bards will be singing songs of the Vegetable Blight for generations."

"Perhaps that is what happened to her lip?" the elf suggested. "Attacked by a rabid radish in the forest?"

"Do you _mind_?" Talia asked acidly, the poorly muffled giggle behind her effectively defeating her attempts to keep the blush from returning to her face. It wasn't as though it had even swollen that much, but of course, the sharp-eyed Antivan had spotted it as soon as she had emerged from her tent that morning.

"Not at all," Zevran replied, leaning back on his elbows and grinning up at her with an insouciance that made her wish she hadn't already removed her armor.

Then again, she could always don it again; a bit of sparring would be a good outlet for the restless energy that gripped her, and the elf would have trouble grinning while trying to dodge her blade.

"Talia?" She turned to find Alistair watching her, his smirk giving way to a look of concern. "Are you all right?"

"I -" _I'm fine,_ she started to say, but she knew he would see right through the lie. "Could I talk to you?" she asked hesitantly. "Away from here?"

"Of course," he said at once, sheathing Duncan's blade, setting aside the whetstone and coming to his feet. Once they had discovered the Grey Warden's sword and dagger buried in the chest of the ogre that the necromancer had set upon them, Alistair had returned Maric's sword to the strongbox without hesitation, and now both blades were always with him.

Zevran's eyes followed the two Wardens as they disappeared into the trees, then he pushed himself to his feet and sauntered over to Leliana.

"So, would you have any idea why our fearless leader has been so distracted today?" he asked with an exaggerated air of casualness.

"I'm sure that I have no idea what you are talking about," the bard replied, keeping her eyes fixed on her work.

"No?" The elf feigned amazement. "Your mind must be wandering as far afield as hers, then, if you've not noticed." He paused, then continued with a sly smile, "Perhaps if she had followed you into your tent last night, you would both be a bit less distracted today, eh?"

The blue eyes snapped upward, narrowed in irritation. "Has it ever occurred to you that some things are none of your business?"

"No," the elf replied, as honest an answer as he'd ever given. Knowledge was the most universal coin there was, but one never knew which piece of knowledge would turn out to be of value. "I was on watch, so I watched, though there was a disappointing lack of anything to be watched. She seems a bit...ignorant of the way such things proceed. I could, of course, offer some advice, perhaps provide a bit of instruction?"

The tip of a newly fletched arrow was suddenly at his throat, its tip pricking the skin just enough to draw blood. "You will not lay a finger on her." The dulcet voice was all razored steel now, quiet as it slid from its sheath, but no less deadly for that. "Nor speak a word to her of any of this."

"As you wish," he said easily, "but I suspect that she is speaking to her fellow Warden of 'this' even now. Your choice to play coy today may have been poorly made."

The pressure from the arrow increased for just a second, and then it was pulled away, the tip wiped clean and added to the quiver in a single, fluid motion. "Go and find someone else to annoy, Zevran," Leliana told him, bending back to her task a bit too slowly to keep him from seeing worry replace irritation in her eyes.

One had to have one's amusements, but Zevran also had a keenly honed sense of when it was time to step away. Bowing slightly, he made his way back to the fire, feeling the bard's eyes between his shoulder blades like a dagger's tip. Morrigan had watched the exchange in silence, and now those golden eyes were on him, as well, cold and inscrutable. He had kept his word and told no one of her secret, but he could not resist sending her the occasional saucy grin to remind her that he knew and she was likely even now wondering if she could kill him in a way that would throw suspicion on Leliana.

He dropped back to the ground with a careless grace and stretched out to savor the fading warmth of the autumn sun. The weather might be different, but with all the intrigues and that delightful sense of living on the edge, it was almost as good as being back in Antiva.

* * *

Something had happened last night. Alistair knew that he wasn't the most observant one in the world when it came to people, but he knew that much. He'd gone to his tent before Talia and Leliana had returned with the water, leaving Zevran on watch with Shale. This morning, both women had been acting strangely, Talia as skittish and antsy as a yearling foal under saddle for the first time, and the Orlesian looking torn between satisfaction and concern.

They had barely spoken to each other since breakfast, but the currents crackling between them were almost palpable. Talia frequently glanced toward the bard, seeming on the verge of speaking to her, then seeming to lose her nerve, and Alistair would swear that he'd seen a smug smile touching Leliana's lips as she'd watched the Warden in her quandary.

Talia stalked through the undergrowth ahead of him now, shoving branches out of her way with such force that he frequently found himself having to duck and block as they flew back at him.

" _What_ is going on?" he demanded as they emerged into a clearing. Talia did not answer immediately, pacing from side to side a couple of times before spinning to face him.

"I need you to do me a favor," she told him, looking as close to embarrassed as he'd ever seen her.

"All right," he answered readily. "What is it that you -"

"Kiss me," she blurted, a blush darkening her cheeks.

He blinked, gave his head a little shake. He couldn't have heard her correctly. "Come again with that?"

"I need you to kiss me," she repeated tersely, her face reddening even more. "I need to know something."

"You realize this isn't the most romantic proposition I've ever received?" he asked her. "Come to think of it, it is, actually...which makes it even more disturbing -"

"Alistair, damn it!"

"All right! All right!" he held up his hands in surrender. The glare she was shooting him did not bode well for continued hesitation for frivolous things like asking why. Approaching her, he leaned in gingerly and puckered up, hoping he was doing it right.

He wasn't certain exactly _what_ he'd been expecting to feel when their lips met, but what he got wasn't it, and he found himself oddly comforted by the fact that her expression suggested that her response was mirroring his.

" _Ewww_."

They stepped away from each other hastily, Talia scrubbing the back of her hand across her mouth, which made Alistair feel better about giving in to the urge to do the same. After a few long, awkward moments, they looked at each other cautiously. His lips twitched first, then hers, and then they were leaning into each other and giggling madly.

"Not what you were expecting?" he asked when he could look at her without breaking up again.

"Maker, no! It was like kissing my brother!"

"Likewise. At least, I assume it would be, never having kissed - wait - you kissed your brother?"

"No." She looked at him as though he'd taken leave of his senses. "Not since I was little, anyway. That's just what I figured it would feel like."

"Think about that often, do you?"

"Will you stop that?" she demanded, swatting him on the arm.

"Only if you tell me what this was all about."

She sobered suddenly and sank to the ground, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Last night, while we were on our way to fill the water-skins, Leliana -"

"Kissed you?" Alistair guessed when she hesitated.

Talia nodded, looking uncertain. "Sort of. I mean, it was just for this." She raised a finger to her lower lip and the small cut there. "It was like a joke, but -"

"But it didn't feel like kissing your brother," Alistair finished for her as he settled to the ground at her side. "Or your sister, for that matter."

"No." She shook her head slowly. "It was...I don't even know how to describe it."

"Good, though?" he asked, though he hardly needed to. Her expression was softer than he'd ever seen, a gentle mix of bafflement and exhilaration. "And that gets us to you asking me to kiss you how, exactly?"

She looked sheepish. "I'd just...never kissed anyone that I really cared about before," she admitted. "I kissed Rory Gilmore once, but that was because Fergus dared me to. I thought maybe that was how it always felt, but -" She shook her head with a rueful smirk. "Obviously not." Then her face grew troubled. "But what do I do now? What if she didn't mean it the way I thought she did?"

_Andraste's knickers! And everyone thinks_ _ **I'm**_ _the dense one?_ "She did," he assured her. "Trust me on this."

Talia eyed him suspiciously. "How do you know?"

_Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh_. "Another of my mysterious templar powers," he told her with an exaggerated and suitably mystical wave of one hand before rolling his eyes. "Maker, Talia, she's been head over heels for you since we left the Circle...maybe longer than that!"

"She has?" She looked elated, then embarrassed, then irritated. "Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded.

"Well, there's been the teensy distraction of the darkspawn," he shot back, "but mostly, it's because she'd likely have had my giblets on the tip of something sharp if I had."

Talia frowned. "Why?"

"I think she doesn't really believe she's worthy of being loved," he said thoughtfully. "The things she did as a bard in Orlais...they haunt her sometimes. You can see it in her eyes."

"Yes," Talia agreed softly, "but...why me?"

"I haven't the faintest idea on that one," he told her, leaning back on his elbows and looking up at her with his drollest expression. "You're ugly as sin, dumb as a rock, couldn't fight your way out of an empty room, no sense of honor whatsoever." He shook his head. "It's one of life's great mysteries - ow!"

"I'm serious, Alistair," she growled at him, releasing the ear she'd just tweaked. "I treated her so badly at first, then I almost got her killed at Haven..." She trailed off, looking at him helplessly.

"She almost got herself killed," he corrected her. "Trying to protect you, because she loves you." He deliberately used the word, watching Talia's face.

"Love?" she repeated, almost fearfully.

"Yes: love," he pressed. "She loves you. I'd bet Duncan's sword on that. Do you love her?"

She was silent for a long moment, her eyes searching the trees overhead. "I thought that my life had ended when Highever fell," she said at last, her voice low. "I wanted it to end. I didn't have anything to live for but vengeance. Then I found you...and her...and Morrigan and the others." The dark eyes turned to him, bright with emotion as she searched for the words. "My parents always taught me that family was everything. You and the others are my family now. All of you, but you and Leliana even more. You're my best friends." She gave a bemused snort. "Actually, I always sort of figured that you and she would -"

He had to laugh now. "And she's been pushing me at you every chance she got, at least, until recently." He chuckled as her astonished look made it clear that she had been as oblivious to that as she had been to the evidence of the bard's true affections. "Anyway, I think we just put paid to that notion. You're both like sisters to me." He paused, examining his feelings, and was pleased to find that he was telling the truth. A part of him felt a wistful yearning for something like the closeness that was growing between Talia and Leliana, but his heart had evidently accepted the fact that neither of them would fill that role for him. And honestly, between the Blight and the possibility of Eamon jamming the crown onto his head at the first opportunity, it was just as well that he wasn't dealing with the added distraction of a romantic entanglement.

"How do you feel about her, Talia?" There really wasn't any question in his mind; it had become more and more apparent over the last few weeks, but getting his friend to recognize it for herself was another matter.

"I do love her." she admitted slowly, "but it's different from what it was. When she got hurt so badly, I didn't know what I would do if she -" She broke off, her expression bleak, then gave her head a little shake. "Ever since then, it's like I can't relax unless I can see her, know that she's all right, and then last night... I think she wanted me to go with her into her tent." Her eyes were wide and more than a hint of panic laced her voice as she continued, "Alistair, I don't have any idea what to do!"

"You mean about -" He felt his ears heating up. "You realize you're not exactly asking the best person for advice, right?"

"Who else am I going to ask?" she demanded in exasperation. "Morrigan? Sten? Zev?"

"Good point," he conceded. "I'd start by just talking to her, letting her know how you feel. As far as the other thing goes..." _Maker, how did I wind up having this conversation?_ "I'm pretty sure she'll be willing to help you figure it out." The bard had teased him at Redcliffe about his innocence being an irresistible lure to women; he strongly suspected that it applied to her, as well - where Talia was concerned, anyway.

"Talk to her." Talia chewed nervously at her lower lip. "You're sure that she really feels that way about me?"

"I'm sure," he replied patiently, managing not to roll his eyes.

"But then, why hasn't she said anything today?" she asked in irritated confusion. "It's like last night never happened."

"I suspect it's a mix of not wanting to push you too hard and enjoying watching you being the one tripping all over yourself for a change," he told her with a faint smile. "She's been -" He broke off, cocking his head. Talia started to speak, but then she too heard it: shouts and the clash of steel on steel, coming from the direction of camp.

Their eyes met briefly, then looked downward: neither of them wore armor, though they'd at least kept their weapons with them. Talia beat him to her feet, sweeping Starfang from its sheath as she bolted back through the trees. He was only a heartbeat or two behind her, though, drawing Duncan's sword with his right hand and the dagger with his left: Zevran had been working with them both on fighting with two weapons, and as long as he didn't have his shield, it was as good a time as any to put that training into practice.

He'd been devoutly hoping that they would interrupt a spirited sparring session, but no such luck: the camp had been invaded by a full dozen or more – bandits? Soldiers? _W_ _hat the? Never mind, just deal with it,_ he told himself, charging into the fray. Three were already down, and he felt a shock of recognition as he squared off against a tall, plate-clad warrior wielding a two-handed sword and found himself staring into a bronzed face framed with frost-white braids.

Qunari? No, not all of them; there were humans among them, as well, and their mage looked to be an elf - from the brief glimpse he got before she was hit from one side by a cone of cold that froze her solid, her arm still raised in the midst of spell-casting, then shattered by a head-sized stone that came flying in from another quarter. All things considered, it was probably safest for the world in general that their two mages didn't see eye to eye outside of battle.

" _Ebost issala_!" Sten's battle cry sounded more savage than usual as he bore down on another of the qunari, but there was something odd about this attack, a pattern that Alistair couldn't quite grasp, being more than a bit preoccupied by the challenge of fighting without armor.

_Each weapon can be offensive as well as defensive,_ he reminded himself, twisting aside and letting the massive blade of his opponent sweep by him and strike the ground, then pinning it with his own sword and stabbing upward with the dagger at one of the few vulnerable spots: the gap just beneath the bottom of the helmet. Blood washed over his hand in a heated flood, and the qunari stiffened and sagged to the ground. Definitely not as good as Sten.

Stepping away, he took the moment of respite to survey the battle, and the pattern quickly fell into place: all of their attackers, no matter who they were currently fighting, seemed to be focused on reaching a single individual.

"Talia!" he shouted, moving forward to help Zevran with the two that he was keeping occupied with his flashing blades. "They're after Leliana!"

The bard had put her back to a large tree, and was calmly loosing arrow after arrow into the fray, but time and again, the missiles would waver and veer, missing their targets. Alistair swore as another qunari dodged around Shale and charged her with a wicked looking axe raised high, her arrows being deflected by the magic protecting him. Whoever they were, they'd come ready to deal with an archer.

"Brego!" At his mistress' shout, the mabari immediately released the clamp of his jaws around the leg of one man - and from the angle it was left at, he wasn't going anywhere fast - and charged the qunari, hitting him full in the chest and knocking him to the ground.

In the meantime, Talia's current opponent found himself demoted to the unenviable position of an obstacle between the Warden and where she wanted to be. She'd been fighting hard but smart, using every last bit of the mobility that she had gained by not being encumbered by armor, dancing in and out of range, looking for a gap in her foe's defenses. Now, she slowed, deliberately letting her left arm drift forward. He took the bait, his sword lashing out to open a gash from elbow to wrist, but in doing so, he squared up himself. Talia bulled in, kicking his shield completely open and driving her sword in a brutal jab through the same gap that Alistair had exploited, sliding in between helmet and gorget.

The use of a sword made for far messier results, however, and when she wrenched her blade free, the head tumbled from the shoulders, still safely encased in the helmet. Once she joined Brego, the outcome for the bastard on the ground was a foregone conclusion, allowing Alistair to turn his full attention back on his own foe. Zevran had already taken advantage of the distraction that his arrival had provided to dispatch one, and with the odds now reversed, his comrade soon shared his fate.

"Nicely done," the elf congratulated him. "A bit slow, mind you." His finger came out to poke at a shallow cut across the upper chest that Alistair did not remember receiving, "But overall, not bad."

"Brego, check the perimeter!" As the mabari loped off to obey her command, Talia spun in a tight circle, eyes blazing with anger as she confirmed that none of their attackers remained standing.

"Zevran, tie that one up." She jabbed a finger in the direction of the one that Brego had crippled: the only one left alive, not seeming to notice the blood dripping in a steady stream from her left arm. Wynne, however, had her corralled before she had taken more than a step toward aiding the elf in his task.

"What were you thinking?" Leliana, pale but uninjured, berated her as the mage began the spell of healing. "You _let_ him hit you!"

"I needed him to open up," Talia growled, wincing slightly as Wynne pressed the edges of the wound together. "I didn't have time to dance around."

"But you -"

"It was a calculated risk, not a reckless one," Sten said as he approached, his tone suggesting that this pronouncement should settle the issue. "Trading a blow that wounds for one that kills is a sound tactical decision." He did not flinch from the bard's glare, his own face set in an expression of anger that was rare for him.

"Who were they, Sten?" Talia asked, giving Wynne a nod of thanks and experimentally flexing her arm, opening and closing the fingers of that hand as she stared at the dead qunari.

" _Tal'Vashoth_ ," he said, snarling the word as though it were a curse. "They abandon the Qun and their proper place. They are worse than traitors, lower than any _Kabethari_ , and it is the duty of the _Beresaad_ to slay them on sight."

"In that, you have succeeded, my friend," Zevran remarked with his usual jocularity as he bound the lone survivor's hands behind him. "I have encountered such rogue qunari before; they frequently become mercenaries. Highly effective fighters, if somewhat lacking in subtlety. I would wager that these had taken that path; their weapons and armor are too well made to belong to mere bandits."

"And they seemed to be showing an inordinate amount of interest in our innocent lay-sister," Morrigan put in, regarding Leliana with a sardonically arched eyebrow. "Shall we suppose they were seeking religious instruction?" The bard swallowed hard, but returned the witch's gaze defiantly.

"Only one way to find out," Talia said, enough rage still smoldering in her eyes to make Morrigan visibly reconsider further commentary.

The survivor watched with an air of bitter resignation as the Warden approached him. He'd been one of the few wearing leather armor, and though it appeared to be expensive, it had provided almost no protection from the powerful jaws of a mabari. The left knee looked to have been crushed, the lower leg jutting away from the joint at an angle that made Alistair wince.

"Who sent you?" Talia asked him flatly, the tip of her sword coming to rest at the hollow in the base of his throat.

"Couldn't tell you," the man replied, his voice devoid of fear and almost laconic: one who'd spent many years cheating death for a living and was not surprised to find himself staring it in the face now. "Boyden," he jerked his head toward the decapitated corpse to his left, "just said that an Orlesian woman had offered good coin to kill the redheaded wench." His lips twisted in a mirthless smirk. "Said that we could kill the rest of you or not, as we chose, but that anything we got off your bodies would be a bonus on top of our pay." He uttered a harsh bark of laughter. "Seemed like an easy decision at the time."

"Marjolaine." Leliana's voice was little more than a whisper, her expression a mix of resignation and dread. "It could be no other. Not after so long."

Talia nodded slowly, then turned cold eyes back to the captive. "How were you supposed to get paid?"

"Boyden had an address in Denerim we were to go to," he replied with a shrug. "He wrote it down. Should still have it on him."

"Find it," Talia ordered without turning around. Alistair knelt beside the body, rummaging through the neatly tooled leather pouch on the belt. A few sovereigns and some silvers, flint and steel, a polished bit of rock that must be a lucky charm of some sort, and -

"Got it," he announced, unfolding the scrap of paper and scanning the barely legible scrawl. "Looks like it's in the market district."

Talia nodded again, her expression never changing as she thrust Starfang into the captive's throat. "Drag the bodies well away from camp," she told Sten and Shale as she turned away.

_Better them than me,_ Alistair thought, nudging a piece of what had once been the mage with his toe. The chunks were beginning to thaw, and - _Oh, Maker, not on my tent!_

He was distracted from his glum contemplation of half-frozen elf bits on oiled canvas by Leliana. "I should leave now," she said quietly, her expression drawn and haunted. "My presence endangers the rest of you. She will try again...and again, if need be, until she succeeds."

"Not if we take her down before she figures out that this attempt failed." Talia cleaned the blood from her sword, then returned it to its sheath. "How long to get to Denerim?"

The bard shook her head. "Talia, I can't ask you to -"

"You're not asking," the Warden cut her off, catching her hand as she tried to turn away. "I'm telling you: this is what we're going to do. How long?" Her tone was an odd mixture of harsh and gentle, attempting to reassure Leliana at the same time that she was struggling to dissipate the anger that currently had no target. He could see the fight in the set of her shoulders and the tight line of her jaw. Her control had not been so sorely tested since Haven, but she hadn't broken in combat, which, given the provocation, might qualify as a minor miracle.

"How long?" she repeated again, gentleness winning out as she kept her eyes focused on the Orlesian's face.

Leliana looked on the verge of tears. "A week, maybe a bit less, but the guards in the market district know us, Talia. It's not safe -"

Zevran cleared his throat diffidently. Talia turned her head, the look on her face saying plainly that the reason for the interruption had better be a good one.

"I believe that I may have a solution."


	28. The Pearl's Secret

Wynne had never been one to sit back and wait. In her younger days, she had always been the first to volunteer when a summons was received for the aid of the Circle. Even when her experience made her more valuable as a teacher to the young, the siren's call of adventure kept calling to her, though her duties permitted fewer and fewer opportunities to answer. Age had slowed her step, stiffened her joints, but it had not quelled her hunger for a challenge; she had not hesitated when the call had come to fight beside the King at Ostagar.

Still, one of the reasons that she was permitted to go out, and frequently without a templar escort, was that she was prudent, always respecting the magic that she wielded, only taking those risks that were necessary. As a young woman, she had been motivated primarily by the knowledge that bad behavior would curtail her excursions; as she had gained in experience, she had seen others fall victim to their own rash actions and pride, learning from their mistakes, as well as her own. Now, though she was known among the other Circle elders as a bit of a maverick (most of them had been more than content to stay in the comfort of the Tower and teach), to those younger than herself, she had become accustomed to being the voice of reason.

So what, in Andraste's name, was she doing following a pirate through a hidden tunnel beneath Denerim, a city where their likenesses were probably still adorning reward posters, and bound for a _brothel_ , of all places? And was it really possible that she was enjoying this decidedly un-prudent, unreasonable adventure?

Damn right, she was.

She _had_ tried, that first night, to dissuade Talia from her plan.

_"You need to think carefully about what you are proposing," she urged the Warden. "You are letting your feelings dictate your actions."_

_"What else would you have me do?" Talia asked her, her voice low. Leliana had retired to her tent in tears when she had been unable to sway the warrior from her intent, and Talia's eyes shifted there now, clearly not wanting the bard to overhear. "Move forward knowing that we have somebody behind us sending out assassins? Or abandon someone who has been a loyal companion and ally? Is that what Grey Wardens do?"_

_"Is that really why you are doing this?" Wynne pressed her. The heart that had drawn her out on many an adventure could not argue with the younger woman's words, but the head stubbornly reminded her what was at stake. "I've seen the way the two of you look at each other. I can't tell you what to feel, and I don't want to," she added as Talia's eyes darkened with anger, "but you cannot let those feelings override the duty that you and Alistair have to Ferelden. You are the last two Grey Wardens -"_

_"So we should wrap ourselves in wool and wait for the archdemon to appear?" Talia shook her head with a snort. "Wynne, by that logic, we shouldn't be doing any of what we're doing!"_

_"There are risks that must be taken, and those that shouldn't be."_

_"And taking care of the people that follow us is a risk we shouldn't be taking?" The warrior's eyes regarded her with a look of bitter disappointment that cut to the quick. "The end justifies the means, and anybody who becomes a hindrance is left in the dust? I can't do that Wynne. I won't." Her voice was controlled, resolute. "Could you?"_

_She hesitated. The choice was an easy one in the abstract, but did the end truly justify the means? If so, what did that say of Loghain's actions? Ferelden could ill afford to lose its two remaining Wardens, but if they turned their backs on their allies in the name of expedience...what then? "I do not know," she sighed at last._

_"I'll make it even easier," Talia responded. "It's your decision: do we follow Zev's plan, sneak into Denerim and deal with this, or are you going to tell Leliana that she can leave? You know she'll do it; she'd be gone now if I hadn't promised her that I'd have Brego track her." She crossed her arms and cocked her head, waiting, calm and unwavering, already sure of what the mage's response would be._

_So many changes in just a few weeks. The tempering process that had begun in earnest in the temple of the Urn had continued after they had left, fed by the fire that Talia carried in her heart. This was not a rebellious youth defying her, but their leader refusing her counsel and challenging her... **knowing** her. In spite of the conflicting imperatives that warred within her, she felt a spark of pride. "You win," she conceded, shaking her head with a rueful chuckle, "but you do realize that this is insane?"_

_Talia laughed suddenly, the unexpected sound as bright as the sun breaking through clouds. "Maker, Wynne! Can you name one thing about what we're trying to do that isn't crazy?" She grinned at the mage. "If any of us were sane, we wouldn't be here!"_

_The words should have sounded bitter, cynical, but Talia's voice was strong and sure, and that artless smile stirred something within the mage: something that she hadn't realized had gone to sleep until she felt it waking. Almost against her will – certainly against her better judgment – she found herself returning the smile. "You do have a point."_

_The smile gave way to a more serious mien, the dark eyes growing earnest. "If you ever think I'm doing something for Leliana that I wouldn't do for any of the others, including you, I expect you to call me on it. Agreed?"_

_"Agreed."_

And so it was that Zevran set out the next morning ahead of them, meeting them just over five days later to guide them to the entrance of the hidden tunnel, and Wynne the practical, Senior Enchanter of the Circle, found herself following Isabela's torch through the darkness, her heart racing with a rebellious exhilaration that it hadn't known since her years as an apprentice, anticipating taking the fight to an enemy. The passage was old, the stones in its floor worn by the passage of many feet, and there were puddles in the low places, water that had seeped in from the river that lay overhead.

"Here we are." A blank wall loomed up in the guttering, golden light of the torch, iron rungs driven into the stone stretching upward. They seemed stout, but there was no possibility that they would support Shale, nor was stealth an option with close to a ton of stone in the group; the golem had stayed behind, waiting just inside the entrance to the tunnel with his usual stoic patience. The pirate set the torch into a bracket on the wall and stepped to the side, gesturing to the ladder with a flourish.

"Welcome to the Pearl, ladies and gentlemen...and Zev."

* * *

Leliana was in a state approaching full fledged panic as she stood waiting her turn to ascend the ladder. Why hadn't she just run? Surely she could have eluded Brego; she had outwitted hounds before, though admittedly not mabari.

That Marjolaine had found her after so much time was terrifying enough, but she had also known enough to know where to send her assassins, which made it certain that she knew about the others, about Talia. Those she had sent had not been meant to kill, but to taunt: to make certain that Leliana knew that she was being hunted...and by whom.

It had always been a game to Marjolaine, though the rules were constantly changing, according to the situation and her whims. Sometimes, the target must not be aware of your intentions until you achieved them, but in this case, it would not have suited her for Leliana to be killed outright and unknowing. The attack in the forest had been nothing more than her opening move.

"Up you go, boy." Talia and Alistair were beneath Brego, pushing at his haunches as his massive paws scrabbled at the rungs.

"Andraste's flaming sword!" Alistair abruptly averted his head away from the hound's back end with a sick expression. "What has he been _eating_?"

"The usual." Talia seemed unaffected by the smell, which quickly spread throughout the tunnel. "Whatever he can catch, plus whatever he can beg."

"Well, whoever's been feeding him cabbage can stop. I can't believe you share a tent with that!"

"If being downwind of your armor hasn't killed me..."

The banter that would usually have brought a smile to Leliana's face now only heightened her agitation. How could they joke at a time like this? Marjolaine would kill them all, if she had the chance, and make Leliana watch while she did it. And if she knew of her former protégée's feelings for Talia...

She would kill the Warden, yes, but not before she made sure to tell her everything: all the details of the life of an Orlesian bard that Talia had never pressed her for. Deceptions, manipulations, seductions, assassinations. Only after she had done that, after she had extinguished the new light that was in Talia's eyes when she looked at Leliana, buried it beneath the weight of the past, would she take her life. And Leliana would be forced to watch both.

"Leliana?"

Only she, Alistair, Isabela and Talia remained, and the Warden was holding out a hand to her expectantly. She stared at it, unmoving, and when Talia took a step forward, she took a hasty step back.

A frown flickered across Talia's face and was gone. "You two go on up," she said without turning around. Alistair looked dubious, but obeyed; the pirate glanced between them with a knowing smirk that made the bard itch to slap her, then turned and followed the other Warden up the ladder.

Now. She could run, but to what end? If she had left earlier, Talia might have abandoned her plan to bring the fight to Marjolaine, but she would not now.

"Leliana?" Talia held out her hand again; her face was lost in the shadow of the torch's backlight, but the bard could feel her worried gaze. "It's all right."

"No, it's not." She shook her head, a sob escaping her. "You don't know her, Talia. You - why didn't you just let me go?" The last was no more than a whisper.

"Why did you kiss me?"

The question took her completely by surprise, and she sagged back against the tunnel wall. "Not now," she pleaded, eyes beseeching. "Do not ask me that now, Talia. Please."

The Warden nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving the bard's face. "All right," she agreed, "but until I get an answer, I won't let you go."

She took a careful step forward, and Leliana trembled, wanting to turn and run, wanting to fling herself into the Warden's arms and -

"After." Her voice was hoarse, her mouth dry. She swallowed, tried again. "If we are still alive after, if you still want an answer, I will give it then." Even if they did kill Marjolaine, she would do her best to spill her poison, salt the earth in her wake, destroy any happiness that Leliana had managed to achieve.

"I'll wait," Talia promised, "and I'm not going to let her hurt you. I've almost lost you twice now." Somehow, she had managed to close more of the distance between them without Leliana noticing, and her hand came up, the back of her fingers gently brushing the tears from the Orlesian's cheek. "Not again."

A ragged laugh forced itself from Leliana's throat. "It's not my own safety I'm worried about, you idiot," she said, managing not to tilt her head into the touch. "She'll kill the rest of you before she deals with me." Her confidence that her companions were more than a match for her former mentor had been badly shaken by the unexpected appearance of the assassins.

"She can try." Talia's grin was wolfish, teeth gleaming white in the darkness. "Now come on."

Leliana hesitated. "Promise me you won't do anything foolish, Talia. Not for my sake."

The Warden chuckled. "I've already had this talk with Wynne," she said. "I know what's at stake, and I promise to be good. Now, will you make the same promise?"

The bard nodded wordlessly and moved toward the ladder, only to find her path blocked. "Promise," Talia pressed her, the glow of the torch casting her features into a flickering play of light and shadow. "Say it, Leliana."

"I -" She stared up at the Warden. _Her_ Warden. _No_ , she scolded herself for the thought, unable to shake the superstitious dread that acknowledging her feelings, even to herself, would doom them to be shattered, one way or another. "I promise."

Talia nodded, then bent unexpectedly to steal a kiss, the brush of her lips fleeting and clumsy, but more than enough to set Leliana's heart aflutter like a trapped bird.

The warrior drew back, looking suddenly shy and more than a bit surprised at her own boldness. "We'll do this," she said quietly, her gaze unwavering, "and then we'll talk."

Leliana could not meet her eyes. Ducking her head, she mumbled as much of an agreement as her growing sense of foreboding would allow and reached for the ladder.

"I was beginning to think that our strategy was to allow our target to expire of old age and boredom," Morrigan remarked as she emerged into a large, low-ceilinged room.

"Stow it, Morrigan," Alistair growled as he held out a hand to steady the last few steps of her ascent. Talia was close behind, scrambling through the trapdoor before he could offer to assist her. She turned slowly, her dark eyes alert as they searched the room, finally coming to rest on Isabela and the woman who had entered the room to stand beside the pirate.

"Lady Cousland." The woman was a few years past her prime, but still quite attractive, shorter than Isabela, with a lush figure and thick chestnut hair that fell in waves over pale shoulders left bare by the cut of her crimson dress. She inclined her head to the Warden gracefully. "I am Sanga, the owner of the Pearl." Her voice was a rich contralto that hesitated briefly before adding, "I knew your brother, before he was married, of course. He was a good man. You have my sympathy for your loss."

The shadow of pain flitted across Talia's features and was gone. She accepted the woman's words with a curt nod, saying, "Just 'Talia' will do; Grey Wardens have no titles."

"As you wish," Sanga replied graciously. "You'll have to pardon the accommodations. There's no shortage of prying eyes upstairs, and one set of loose lips flapping to the wrong person is all it would take. Stay down here, then leave by that door." She nodded toward a set of heavy, wooden doors at the top of a ramp that presumably led up to street level.

"How much for the use of your tunnel and this room?" Talia wanted to know.

"Five sovereigns a head," the woman said, her tone becoming businesslike.

"Five sovereigns?" Alistair exclaimed in an outraged voice, while Wynne simply gave Sanga a disapproving look.

"That's half what she charges for normal traffic," Isabela informed them with a crooked grin.

Leliana had heard of the Pearl when she'd still been in Val Royeaux, and knew it was not unusual for brothel owners to engage in activities that skirted the law to add to their profits. The existence of a smuggler's tunnel was no real surprise, and the cost to use it would of course be high, but Leliana still felt a sick twist of guilt in her gut at the price; it was going to cut steeply into what they had taken out of Ostagar. Because of her.

Talia didn't blink. "Pay the lady, people," she ordered, digging into her own belt pouch and pulling out five gold pieces. "The dog too?"

Sanga shook her head, smiling at Brego, who had stretched out on the floor, his eyes fixed on the two women with an alertness that belied his lazy pose. "Not unless he's carrying cargo."

As the rest of them paid Sanga, Talia's gaze shifted to Isabela. "And how much for your assistance?"

"Well, we could always take it out in trade," the pirate said in a suggestive tone, looking the Warden up and down approvingly. She was an exotic beauty, with dusky skin that suggested Rivaini blood, mahogany hair held back beneath a bright blue bandanna and curves put on bold display by a low-cut chemise and thigh-high leather boots. Jealousy flared white-hot, and Leliana felt her hands curling into fists almost of their own volition, but Talia merely waited expressionless until Isabela chuckled, amber eyes flicking briefly toward the bard before she continued:

"I owed Zevran a favor. This squares us."

Talia looked askance at the elf, one eyebrow raised. Zevran simply shrugged carelessly, and the Warden turned her attention back to the pirate.

"What do you know?"

"The woman you are interested in arrived in Denerim perhaps a month ago, as best as I've been able to determine," Isabela began, leaning back against a crate, all business now. "She's leased a large house in the market district - the address you specified – and seems to reside there with a retinue of servants and bodyguards, including a number of qunari." She glanced sideways at Sten, who stared back impassively, before continuing.

"I've had my crew watching the house for the last two days; she is still there, and has had no visitors that they've seen. She does, however, keep at least two lookouts posted out of sight near the house at all times."

"She's expecting us." It was a statement, not a question, and the roiling in Leliana's stomach intensified.

"That she is," Isabela agreed simply, "and you, in particular, I suspect." There was neither malice nor contempt in the pirate's tone, but the bard flinched at the words, just the same.

"She came here a few times when she first came to town," Sanga spoke up, her blue eyes flinty. "Always picked the redheads, and her tastes were a little exotic, but she paid well, so none of them complained." Exotic. Leliana couldn't look at Talia; if the Maker was merciful, the floor would simply open and swallow her up. "The last time she was here, though, Dani's screams brought the bouncers. They had to break down the door, and the bitch got away through the window. It took two days to get my girl healed up. Take a few strips of her hide for that, while you're at it."

Leather and metal creaked. Leliana lifted her eyes enough to see Talia's gauntleted fist curled tight around Starfang's hilt. "Consider it done."

"How are you planning on doing this?" Isabela wanted to know.

Another creak of armor as Talia shrugged. "Go in, kill her, leave? Apart from those key points, I'm open to suggestion."

"That's good," the pirate replied, "because getting there is going to be the real challenge. Your target is looking for your friend." Leliana didn't need to look up to know who Isabela was pointing to. "And the Denerim guard is looking for the two Grey Wardens -accompanied by a qunari, an Antivan elf, an Orlesian bard, a Circle mage, a maleficar and a mabari war-hound – did I miss anyone?" She glanced around with a smirk before continuing, "who made the Arl of Denerim shit his silk tights a few weeks back. As a group, you are quite...distinctive."

"So, disguises, then?" Talia asked, giving no sign that she even noticed the reference to Rendon Howe.

"Only minimal," Zevran stepped in smoothly. "People tend to see what they expect to see, for good or for ill. Give them that, and you do not need much in the way of disguise. They look for two Wardens with a large group of companions. If we move through the market district in two or three smaller groups, we should attract no undue attention.

"Fortunately, it's cool enough at night that cloaks are common," Isabela put in, "which means that you should be able to get away with wearing your armor, but I'd leave the shields here. As for getting inside the house, they change the guard at midnight, which is roughly two hours from now. Right now, they've got a qunari in an alley across from the house and an elf on a rooftop nearby. Replace them with your own men, and my crew will help take out their relief when they arrive; that'll be four less that you have to deal with inside. My crew will keep watch outside the house to make sure you're not disturbed. When you're done, come back here and leave the way you came in."

"That must have been quite the favor," Talia murmured, glancing quizzically at Zevran again.

"It was...and it's none of your business," Isabela replied with no hint of rancor. "I'm also rather fond of Dani, and she still has nightmares of what that bitch did to her."

Leliana closed her eyes, remembering all too well those rare occasions when she had earned Marjolaine's displeasure, and had not learned of it until she had been in bed with her lover, naked and helpless. The older woman became someone that Leliana did not recognize on such occasions; tears and screams seemed only to excite her further, so the girl had learned to hold them in until the storm passed and the Marjolaine she knew – or thought she knew - returned to comfort her with honeyed words and gentle touches. And now, the wrath that was directed at her had been vented on an innocent.

She swayed and immediately felt Talia's arm around her, steadying her. "It's not your fault," the warrior murmured.

"And if one of you gets killed, whose fault will it be?" she demanded, trying to maintain control. She would be no use if she fell apart.

"So, the archdemon is supposed to fear us, but one woman should not?" Talia sounded almost amused at the notion, and Leliana knew that if she looked up, she would find the dark eyes gleaming with gentle humor, urging her to smile. She did not look up, choosing instead to simply lean into the Warden's shoulder, needing the comfort of her presence, but afraid to tempt fate by seeking more. The way she put it made sense, but Leliana could not seem to make herself think rationally. "Do you want to stay here?"

"No!" She did look up now, stepping away from Talia, stung to the quick by the question, however kindly it had been meant. "This fight is mine; bad enough that the rest of you have been dragged in."

"Then act as though you are capable of fighting," Morrigan demanded tartly, "and not like some fainting Chantry flower who wilts at the prospect of bloodshed!"

The words kindled an anger that was a welcome alternative to the weight of despair. She drew herself up, her jaw set. "I will fight," she said, glaring defiantly at the witch, "and I will kill her, if I can."

"You won't fight alone," Talia told her. "None of us does...do we, Morrigan?" The words were mildly spoken, but the witch flushed and looked away in obvious discomfort. "We fight together," she went on, her voice hardening as she glanced around at the others. "By choice. Anyone who doesn't want to be here can leave." Her expression said what her words did not: anyone who did leave for this fight would not be welcomed back after they left Denerim.

Each of them met her eyes without looking away, some of them nodding slightly in affirmation. Even Wynne, who should by all rights be apoplectic at the needless risk they were taking, nodded without a trace of hesitation, her lips curving in an enigmatic smile.

"All right, then," Talia said with a nod of satisfaction. "This is how we're going to do it..."


	29. Sins of the Past

Denerim at night was a new experience for Talia. The streets were still active, filled with people, but the feel was entirely different. There was a furtiveness to the way they moved in going about their business, a tendency to either keep close to the shadows that loomed around every building and alleyway or to stay fearfully in whatever light was available from the oil lamps suspended from hooks at the corners of many of the buildings or what faint illumination shone through the windows of the buildings themselves.

A fog had rolled in on the autumn air, swirling heavy along the ground and thinning gradually on the way up, intensifying the shadows, dimming the already scant light and adding another layer of mystery to the night. As she and Morrigan moved steadily further into the market district, the occasional sightings of the guards grew more and more rare, the lamps grew further apart, and the figures that lurked in the shadows grew more numerous and bolder.

The stalls of the market were deserted, their wares secured elsewhere, behind locked doors, and the canvas of their walls and roofs undulating fitfully in the sparse night breeze, looking like some unimaginably great serpent stirring within the fog. She tensed as a startled cry rose from an alley, then melted into a thick and wet gurgling, and finally a heavy silence.

"Stay in front of me," she ordered the witch tersely. She had her armor on beneath her cloak; a dagger driven at her back would likely skate harmlessly off the steel plate.

"They are welcome to try, if they wish," Morrigan replied, unconcerned, though she did move until she was walking directly in front of Talia, a cloak similar to the one the Warden wore likewise sheathing her from head to foot, the deeply cowled hood even hiding her face. "They would learn quickly to exercise more care in choosing their targets...assuming they survived their mistake."

"We don't have time." Sten and Zevran had gone out with Isabela and two of her crew shortly before the others had left. By now, they should have taken out the two mercenaries that Marjolaine had on guard outside the house; the rest of them needed to be in position when the watch changed at midnight. Alistair, Leliana and Wynne were somewhere behind them. Talia hadn't cared for the notion of splitting up, even temporarily, but she'd accepted the pirate's assurance that a group of that size would draw too many curious glances from the guard.

She'd liked the idea of separating from Leliana even less. Seeing the bard so frightened, being unable to comfort her was frustrating, and the possibility that her fear might lead her to do something foolish haunted Talia, but Isabela had grouped them with a manner that did not invite discussion, and they would need the help of the pirate and her crew to pull this off successfully. She knew Denerim in a way that Talia never would. To find Marjolaine's lair, deal with her and whatever forces she had assembled, and then escape Denerim without drawing the attention of the guard was not something that she was sure they could do on their own; certainly, they never would have managed to enter the city undetected without using that tunnel.

Someday, she'd have to find out from Zevran just what that favor was that he'd done for Isabela. She supposed that she could simply order him to tell her, if he was truly 'her man', but the idea of doing so felt wrong, particularly after he'd called in that favor to aid her, with no real gain for himself.

Ahead of her, Morrigan's step slowed. "There," the witch whispered, nodding toward a nondescript-looking single-story structure set between a tailor's shop and a cobbler, their identifying signs barely legible through the fog. Talia nodded, fading back a few steps into the concealing gloom of an alley, Morrigan following her. She slipped her hand through a slit in the cloak and gestured, and one of the shadows in their wake detached itself and ghosted forward, low to the ground, until it was at her side in the alley.

Another suggestion from Isabela. Mabari were uncommon enough that seeing one with a person would draw attention, but by himself, Brego had become just another of the strays that emerged to roam boldly through Denerim at night, albeit a very large stray. He had followed them at a distance, and because she had also ordered him to keep the second group in sight, his presence meant that they were nearby, as well.

_Leliana._ The urge to step out of the alley, to look for the others, for _her_ , was almost overwhelming, but she resisted. This was why Isabela had separated her from the bard, damn it. Gritting her teeth, she turned her attention back to the house, her fingers scratching lightly at Brego's ears. She could see neither Zevran nor Sten, but they had to have been in place by now; if not, the original guards would likely have taken note of she and Morrigan's appearance and investigated. Her eyes locked on the closed door of the house and she stilled, forcing herself to patience, remembering the conversation that had taken place as they were waiting for Isabela's signal to leave the Pearl.

_"Your control has improved." Morrigan observed, eying her appraisingly. "This is good."_

_"Not much choice," she replied with a shrug. Anger still simmered within her, dangerously close to the boiling point when she let herself recall the broken expression on Leliana's face, and she suspected that if she knew the whole of what that bitch had done to her bard, the fury would bubble over and take control. So she deliberately kept her thoughts away from such musings, forcing herself instead to focus upon the tactical aspects of the situation, keeping the memory of the grievous wounds that the dragon had inflicted upon Leliana as a shield between herself and the rage, reminding her of what the loss of control could cost. "I'd prefer if we all lived through this."_

_"Always a desirable outcome, though it may not always be possible." The witch spoke with a studied indifference that Talia knew well; Morrigan was trying to bait her. "Particularly if you permit your emotions to drag you on these little side jaunts."_

_"I don't recall you complaining when I agreed to take a 'little side jaunt' to kill your mother."_

_"And yet, she still lives."_

_"I offered to do it when we left Ostagar; you refused."_

_"You did not let the Chantry wench's refusal dissuade you from moving against this Orlesian nuisance."_

_"Assassins in our camp is a bit more than a nuisance, wouldn't you say?" She studied the witch quizzically, wondering at the edge in her voice. "Are you jealous, Morrigan?" It was going to be damned awkward if she was, because Talia's feelings for the witch were not even remotely similar to those that she harbored for Leliana. She'd grown fond of her, yes, as much for the occasional flashes of vulnerability that made it past her defenses as for the acerbic wit that she used to keep that vulnerability hidden most of the time._

_"Green with envy," Morrigan replied dryly, the golden eyes giving her a withering glare. "Ties of emotion are a weakness, Talia. Love, friendship: these things are a disease that eat away at the will, causing you to act from foolish sentiment, rather than cold reason."_

_"No room for both?" Talia wanted to know. "Marjolaine poses an active threat to all of us, not just Leliana, particularly if she decides to send out more assassins. So far as I know, Flemeth is a threat only to you, so how is agreeing to take on a powerful abomination that has been growing in power for centuries more reasonable than dealing with a mere mortal?"_

_She saw Morrigan's features tighten, knew that she'd struck a nerve even before the witch shot back, "I asked for nothing more than an exchange of favors: a life for a life."_

" _And I told you that I wouldn't let you use Leliana that way," Talia countered, unable to keep the edge from her voice. "But regardless, if I was using 'cold reason', the risks clearly outweigh the potential gains, favor or not. I agreed because of 'foolish sentiment', because you are my friend, and because it's the right thing to do, just as this is."_

_That, over and above anything else, was the reason for the steely calm that had enveloped her after her initial anger at Marjolaine's attack had passed. She still had no idea what Duncan or any of the other Grey Wardens would have done, but that didn't matter. The look of steady resolve on Alistair's face mirrored her own feelings, confirming that **these** Grey Wardens would not abandon those who helped them. She was not merely following the blind imperative of emotion; she was doing the right thing, a thing that her parents would have approved of._

_She did wonder if Wynne would be so easy to convince when the time came to take on Flemeth, though._

_"Then you are a fool," Morrigan replied sharply._

_"So...you don't want me to kill your mother, then?" She regretted the flippant words almost as soon as she'd said them. Morrigan tried to hide her fear and hurt, and indeed, if Talia had not known what to look for, she likely would not have seen the emotions flash across the elegantly formed features. What must it have been like, being raised with no love or affection, then finding out that you were little more than a herd animal being prepared for slaughter? To know that you stood absolutely no chance alone, but to be convinced that trusting others was an intolerable weakness that would inevitably be exploited by those you were forced to rely upon? Morrigan's fear of Flemeth was as great as Leliana's fear of Marjolaine, and likely greater in some ways. "I'm going to do it, Morrigan, I promise," she said quietly. "I just need to figure out -"_

_"Do as you wish," Morrigan snapped. "It matters not to me." Spinning, she stalked away; by the time the word to depart had arrived, she had once more wrapped herself in disdainful superiority, and Talia did not try to pierce it...not right now._

Shadows loomed in the fog: three cloaked figures moving forward cautiously. A low hiss from Talia turned them toward the alley: Alistair's tall frame first, then Wynne, slender but straight, her shoulders unbowed by age, then finally Leliana's petite form. Talia reached out a hand to brush her shoulder as she passed, the scent of flowers and moonlight swirling up to envelop her.

"I'm all right," the bard said quietly. Her voice sounded stronger than it had before, and when she drew her hood back to give the Warden a wan smile, her face was pale but resolute.

Talia nodded, giving Alistair a questioning glance and receiving a confirming nod in response. It was enough for now, and she turned her attention back to the door. They did not have long to wait before the door swung open, soundless on well oiled hinges, light from the room beyond illuminating the tall, broad-shouldered form of a human and the short, slight frame of an elf. The pair separated as soon as the door closed behind them, the man striding across the street toward an alley a few buildings beyond the spot where they were hidden, while the elf doubled back immediately, vanishing around the corner of the house.

Seconds passed, Talia's heartbeat pounding a rapid tattoo in her ears, before the muffled sounds of a struggle arose up the street. The elf appeared again, drawn by the sound, but before he could cross the street, a shadow dropped from the roof of the building next door, landing without a sound and yanking him back into the darkness. Talia tensed, her eyes going back to the closed door, but evidently, the muted sounds had not been loud enough to draw attention. More seconds passed before Sten's familiar silhouette stepped into the street, joined moments later by Zevran.

"Come on." Talia left the alley, her eyes catching sight of Isabela, barely visible in the shadows at the mouth of the alley that Sten had been concealed in. The pirate gave her a curt nod, then stepped back until she was lost to sight.

After ascertaining that the pair had sustained no significant injury, Talia gestured toward the door, flipping her cloak back over her shoulders and drawing Starfang and a dagger as Zevran approached the door with Sten towering behind him. Anyone on the other side would be expecting an elf and a qunari; hopefully, the few seconds before they realized they were facing the _wrong_ elf and qunari would give some advantage.

Zevran reached for the knob and opened the door, his casual stride changing mid-step to a predator's graceful lunge; in the blink of an eye, he and Sten were through the door, sounds of combat rising again. Talia raced forward to follow them, the others on her heels. One of the two qunari mercenaries inside was already crumpling to the floor, his face an ugly, mottled shade of purple as Zevran stepped away, blood dripping from one of his daggers, the other still clean, save for the glisten of the poison that had killed his opponent.

Sten fought the other in silence, his face set into a mask of fury. The close quarters were as ill suited to the length of Asala as they were for shields, but the qunari kept his swordwork remarkably tight, blocking the attacks that his foe attempted with a wicked looking axe. Still, there was little room to permit him to go on the offensive; Talia stepped in behind the mercenary, thrusting hard from the shoulder, Starfang's keen edge slicing through armor and plunging deep into the back.

Not the noisiest fight they'd ever been in, but neither could it be described as quiet by any stretch of the imagination, yet the door that led from the foyer to the rest of the house remained closed.

"Sten, Zev, stay here." Talia shrugged out of her cloak, letting it drop to the floor. It could only be a hindrance now. "The rest of you, with me." She turned toward the door, but Leliana was already slipping in front of her.

"I will go first," she said firmly, "to look for traps." Her hands ran lightly over the door and its frame, then the floor beneath it, a faintly puzzled frown appearing on her face. "Nothing," she murmured, not resisting when Talia drew her aside.

Glancing back, the Warden ensured that her companions were ready, then threw the door open quickly, her hand dropping immediately to retrieve the sheathed dagger. An empty hallway stretched before her, another closed door at the far end, and still not a sound to indicate that their presence had been noted.

"Wait." Leliana caught her arm as she started to step forward, moving in front of her once again and giving her a look of exasperation. "She is the one who taught me what I know of traps," she said, moving forward in a slow half-crouch, her eyes searching the floor, the walls, the ceiling; her fingers occasionally reached out to carefully test an area of interest, but always withdrew, and when she had finished searching the door at the end of the hallway, she turned back to Talia, a worried look on her face. "I don't like this; if she has not set traps, then..."

"Then she wants us to come to her," the warrior finished, staring at the door, trying to anticipate what might lay beyond. "I won't let her hurt you," she said, seeing the worry on the bard's face give way to naked dread. "She'll never touch you."

"There are many different ways to cause pain, my...my friend," Leliana replied, blue eyes searching her face with a wistful intensity, as though trying to memorize its lines. "She knows them all, and only a few require touch." Before Talia could respond, she had spun and flung open the door, bursting into the room beyond. The Warden swore under her breath and followed.

"Leliana, my dear! How good to see you again!"

Talia's eyes swept the room, alert for any threat, but the lone occupant was seated in a luxuriously padded armchair, and did not seem to be armed. The room itself reeked of Orlais; Talia had gone calling with her mother on occasion, when the family was in Denerim, enduring the social niceties with barely concealed impatience. Despite the prevailing hostility toward most things Orlesian, a good many of Ferelden's noblewomen were fond of the clothes and décor. Eleanor had shrugged it of with her usual practicality, but Nan had always been openly disdainful of the 'fripperies' that this room embodied: the intricately carved and highly polished furniture upholstered in either rich velvets or elaborate brocades; the tapestries that hung from the walls, depicting idyllic scenes of dancing and picnics; the colorful cut glass that covered each oil lamp, casting the room into a shifting play of soft, rainbow light; the delicate ceramic and blown glass vases and figurines that adorned the tables and shelves. The air was heavy with incense; Brego sneezed once, shaking his head in obvious disgust.

Two doors led from the room, besides the one they had entered by; both were closed. Talia glanced over her shoulder; Morrigan and Wynne had stepped immediately to opposite sides of the doorway, their backs to the wall. Alistair was slightly behind her and to her left, weapons drawn, while Brego was at her right. A slight dip of her sword hand, and he faded further right, circling wide until he was between Leliana and the nearest closed door, his eyes never leaving the woman in the chair, who ignored him.

"You must forgive me," she said, her accent heavier than Leliana's. She stood, swirling brandy lazily in a small snifter. The bodice of her blue silk dress was cross-tied elaborately with gold cord, the sleeves blousing over her upper arms, then tapering down to her wrists with more gold cord, the elaborate knotwork seemingly decorative. It would also serve to keep her sleeves out of her way in combat, Talia realized, her eyes shifting to the skirt of the dress; instead of the voluminous petticoats or hoops that were the trademarks of Orlesian style, it was simple and lightweight, falling only to the ankles. It would not slow her overly much in a fight.

If the woman noticed any of the rest of them, she gave no sign; her green eyes were fixed upon Leliana, an indulgent smile curving the lush lips. She was somewhere between Leliana and Talia's mother in age, not a luminous beauty, but striking, with high cheekbones and a keen intelligence in her eyes; her hair was a thick, glossy mahogany without a trace of grey, tumbling past her shoulders in artless curls that had likely taken hours to achieve.

"I do my best to be a good hostess, but what I have to work with..." She gestured expansively with her free hand, her expression one of aristocratic revulsion. "This country is simply barbaric; the fashions are abominable, and everything smells of wet dog! It is everywhere; it seeps into the fabric, the wood, my hair." She shuddered delicately. Brego growled low in his chest, and her haughty gaze turned to him. "Yes, I speak of you, beast! You belong in a kennel, not a parlor!"

"He belongs with me," Talia informed her flatly, never lowering her weapons from their ready position, "and I'd rather have his company than that of quite a few humans that I know." _Including you, bitch._

"Yes, of course you would think so," the woman replied with a dismissive wave. "You have been raised in this pigsty of a country; likely you do not even notice the smell. How long did it take you to get used to it, my dear?" This last was directed at Leliana.

The bard shook her head, her jaw set defiantly. "I will not play these games, Marjolaine. You tried to kill us!"

"Kill you?" The woman regarded Leliana with astonishment, then threw back her head, her rich laugh filling the room. "My sweet one, if I wished you dead, rest assured that you would _be_ dead. Those clumsy fools that I sent were no match for you; I knew this, just as I knew that after you killed them, you would come to find me. And here you are!" She started forward, smiling broadly and arms outstretched, but Leliana stepped out of her reach, and Starfang cut through the air, coming to a stop between the two women.

"You know, Ferelden may be barbaric, but we do have this quaint little custom known as letters," Alistair drawled. "Marvelous method of communication; you really should give it a try next time."

"There won't be a next time," Talia corrected him flatly.

Marjolaine eased back a step, her green eyes shifting to the two Wardens, a sly smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "And these must be your new playmates, Leliana. Quite the delectable pair; have you chosen which one you will bed yet?"

"They are my friends, Marjolaine!" Leliana snapped, bright spots of color tinting her cheeks.

The Orlesian chuckled. "Friends? A bard has no such things, you know this. Only those that may someday be of use."

Fearful blue eyes cut briefly back to Talia. "No," Leliana replied, shaking her head. "I have left such things behind me. I walk the Maker's path now."

The chuckle deepened into another laugh. "Yes, I know. I have watched you in your Chantry: the simple life, the peasant's clothing, hair short and messy like a boy's. This was not my Leliana; I knew it would not last, and it did not. Two dashing Grey Wardens appear, and you could not leave the Chantry quickly enough." She took another step back, and Talia shifted her sword back into a ready position as Majolaine's gaze turned squarely on her, gleaming with a predatory interest. "Not that I blame you. She _is_ exquisite, though I suspect she may prove to be a bit...rougher...than you used to prefer." She smirked as she stepped forward, raising a hand as if to touch Talia's face; the Warden batted her hand away, lip curled in distaste.

"Stay away from her!" Leliana warned, one hand going to the dagger at her hip.

"Too pure for the likes of me, eh?" The hand dropped away, and the green eyes returned to Leliana, coolly taunting. "I am certain you will cure her of that soon enough. You still remember all the things I taught you, yes? You were so eager to learn...and you learned so well!"

"Are you just _trying_ to be as creepy as possible?" Alistair demanded, eying the bardmaster like something unpleasant he'd found on the bottom of his boot. "Is that it?"

"This one is not bad, either," Marjolaine went on as though he had not spoken, looking him up and down like he was a prize bull she was thinking of buying. "It would be a difficult choice...but then, why choose?"

"Enough, Marjolaine!" Leliana's voice was harsh, her face miserable. "What do you want?"

"I want to know what you are up to, my dear," Marjolaine replied, whirling back to face her. "Two years, you were as quiet as a mouse in that chantry, then suddenly this?" The wave of her hand encompassed all in the room. "What do they have that you seek? What is it you are planning?"

"She helps the Grey Wardens against the Blight," Talia informed her, wondering if the Orlesian was mad. "Nothing more nor less."

Marjolaine looked at her with an expression of incredulity and began to laugh again.

"All right...we're way past creepy now," Alistair muttered.

"My dear Leliana, you have indeed chosen well! Such an innocent!" She cocked her head, regarding Talia with a shine of gleeful malice in her eyes. "You truly believe this? You do not know her. You see a friend, warm and caring...just as I taught her to seem. She will say anything, do anything to get what she wants! The question is...what does she want?"

"I want to be free of you, Marjolaine," Leliana murmured desperately. "I left Orlais, left you, because I did not want to become what you are. Whether you believe it or not, I do not want the life that I had before."

"You fled Orlais," Marjolaine reminded her, her smile growing unpleasant. "After assuring me so often that you would die for me, you did not have the stomach for it. I was quite hurt."

"You betrayed me!" Leliana cried out. "I thought you loved me! Everything I did, I did for you!"

The Orlesian clucked her tongue, shaking her head with an expression of amused contempt. "And when did I ever tell you that, you little fool? You believed what you wished to believe, but do not try to tell me that you did it for me. You took to the game like a duck to water; you loved it! How many times did we raise a toast to a secret stolen, a fool seduced, a target killed? How many times did you laugh as you told me how easy it was to gain their trust? All you had to do was discover what they wanted and become it." Again, the sly glance turned to Talia. "What did she become for you, my dear?"

"Enough!" Talia growled, her hand tightening on Starfang's hilt. The woman's words meant little; clearly, she believed that Leliana had said nothing of her past, and Talia had another shield of which Marjolaine knew nothing: memories of the penitent sinner, trapped in the Fade, desiring nothing more than to make amends for what she had done; Leliana standing on the bridge in the Gauntlet, her unwavering faith the only thing that had made it possible for them to cross that barrier; Leliana passing through the flames alongside her, scars healed as the Maker found her worthy. "You are the one who doesn't know her. Now get out!" She wanted to kill the bitch, but she found herself stymied by the fact that her foe bore no weapons, apart from her poisonous tongue. She had never in her life struck an unarmed opponent; it was a rule that had been drilled into her from the moment she had first picked up a sword, and she found herself trapped between anger and honor, glaring at the Orlesian with utter loathing, almost praying that she would draw a blade.

"Leave so soon?" Marjolaine looked at her with a hurt expression, then glanced back at Leliana, the smile returning, though her eyes were as flat and cold as those of a snake rising over a mouse, preparing to strike. "You have truly ensnared her, my sweet bard. I taught you well."

"No." Leliana's voice was a broken whisper, her eyes downcast, shoulders slumped in defeat. "I'm not like you. I'm not..."

"Not like me?" Marjolaine's voice could almost have been kind, to anyone who could not see her face as she leaned in close. "But you _are_ me, Leliana. We are the same, you and I. We are one. No one will ever know you like I do. Do you see how she looks at me? That is how she will look at you, once she sees how you truly are. It is only a matter of time."

Leliana's choked sob broke Talia's inner stalemate. Sheathing the dagger, she shifted the sword to her left hand and stepped forward, swinging her right fist in an arc that ended at Marjolaine's face with a most satisfying impact. The bardmaster staggered back in a spray of blood and broken teeth, and the snifter of brandy shattered on the floor as she fell, leaving Talia to stare bemusedly at her gauntleted fist.

" _Thank_ you!" Alistair stepped up beside her, his nostrils flared in distaste as he looked down at the dazed Orlesian. "Did that feel as good as it looked?"

"Better," Talia replied, deliberately wiping the blood from her hand along one of the tapestries. "Want to take a swing? I think she's earned it."

"Before you beat her senseless, you might want to ask her why she has been stalling so blatantly," Morrigan suggested pointedly. "She certainly did not lure us here to spend all this time gloating for no reason."

Talia glanced over her shoulder at the witch, then back at Marjolaine, the sudden realization that Morrigan was right taking up residence in her gut like a lead weight. The Orlesian's green eyes burned back at her, bright with hate and a spiteful satisfaction. Behind her, she heard the front door open and close, then voices, low and urgent.

_Too late._ "Everybody get ready," Talia snapped in a low voice, switching Starfang back to her right hand and drawing her dagger. "Brego, if the bitch tries to get up, kill her." The mabari answered her with a low, eager growl.

"Stand fast." Zevran's voice sounded in the hall, and seconds later, a man was shoved into the room and stumbled to his knees, his hands bound tight behind him, his face a mass of contusions. The Antivan followed in a leisurely saunter. "A gift from Isabela and her crew," he informed Talia. "They followed him when he left here, and captured him just as he was about to enter the estate of the Arl of Denerim."

_Howe._ She turned, feeling strangely calm, and stared down at Marjolaine. "That was your plan? Get us here and turn us over to Howe and Loghain?" Part of her whispered eagerly to go ahead and spring the trap, take the chance to kill Howe...but there were too many unknowns. Oddly, knowing that the Wardens had been her primary target, rather than Leliana, cooled some of the simmering anger.

"Only Howe." The bardmaster stood, wiping the blood from her face with surprising aplomb. Her eyes were calm and her voice steady...save for the distortion of the two shattered front teeth. If she was at all shaken by the failure of her plan, she gave no sign. "The regent's... prejudices... regarding my country are well known; the Arl hoped that my assistance in bringing the rogue Grey Wardens to justice would soften his stance on the issue."

"Doesn't look like that's going to happen." Alistair's voice dripped with false sincerity. "Too bad."

"Indeed," Marjolaine agreed, her gaze fixed on Talia. "But I am of more use to you alive than dead." The bantering tone was gone, replaced by shrewd calculation.

"You cannot trust a word that she says." Leliana's voice wavered, almost pleading, and when Talia turned to her, she lowered her eyes, tears spilling onto her cheeks.

"I know that," the Warden said softly, returning her weapons to their sheaths and reaching out, trying to lift the bard's eyes to meet hers. "I know," she repeated when Leliana kept her face downturned.

"I can bring word of your plight to the Orlesian Wardens," Marjolaine said quickly when the dark eyes turned to her. "They hear only what Loghain tells them now. I can tell them the truth of the matter."

"Because you're all about truth, is that it?" Alistair wanted to know, looking as bleakly relentless as Talia felt.

"Only when that will serve me best," the bardmaster admitted with a shrug. "Leliana's escape was most...inopportune, and left me in an awkward position, one that could not be remedied by simply killing her. Gaining the gratitude and trust of the power behind the throne in Ferelden would have mended a number of fences; failing that, gaining the gratitude of the Grey Wardens will suffice."

"You really are shameless, aren't you?" He shook his head in disgust, turning to Talia. "I know that they say that Grey Wardens take their allies where they can get them, but -"

"Do they?" Talia kept her expression studiously blank. "I wouldn't know. Nobody ever got around to explaining the Grey Wardens to me before they all got killed."

His lips twitched slightly before settling back to a suitably serious mien. "Now that you mention it, I can't remember where I heard that, exactly, myself. We can't go around making up rules, can we?"

"Definitely not," Talia agreed. "Besides, I've got a better idea." She took a step toward Marjolaine. "Tie her up, leave her here with her errand boy, then send a messenger to the palace as we're leaving. I think Loghain would appreciate the gift of an Orlesian spy, don't you?" She cocked her head, regarding the bardmaster coldly. "If you sell out Howe quickly enough, you might even survive the meeting." Not as satisfying as killing Howe herself, but it would be justice, of a sort.

The last mask fell away, and Marjolaine glared back at her, split lips curled in a sneer. "I think _not_!" The last word was punctuated by her hand lashing out from the folds of her skirt, as swiftly as a striking viper, to hurl a glittering cloud of dust into Talia's face. The Warden barely had time to register the attack before agony blossomed in her eyes, blinding her.

"No!" Leliana's scream echoed her cry of pain and a single shouted word in Orlesian from Marjolaine. She felt the change in the air as doors flew open and more people burst into the room, Brego's snarl mingling with Morrigan and Wynne's voices, along with other voices she didn't recognize. Within seconds, the room was a boiling cauldron of competing magics.

Talia threw herself forward, still blind, feeling something skate off of her armor as she hit Marjolaine, bearing the bardmaster to the floor beneath the combined weight of her and her armor. They hit hard; there was a sharp crack, the brittle sound of splintering wood, and Talia felt Marjolaine stiffen beneath her, then go limp, but she couldn't see, couldn't tell if the deceitful bitch was feigning or not. Was it even Marjolaine? Groping until she found the Orlesian's wrists, she pinned them to the floor, keeping her knee on the woman's chest and crouching low, fighting the need to claw at her burning eyes. "Leliana!" The sounds of combat were maddening, but she could do nothing. "Wynne!"

The sounds diminished: a last gurgle, the telltale hum of a final Arcane Bolt, the clatter of an armored body hitting the floor, and then Wynne's voice rising in a familiar spell, the magic swirling around Talia, soothing away the pain. Her vision cleared, and she found herself staring into Marjolaine's sightless eyes. The bardmaster lay beneath her, neck snapped by the table they'd shattered when they fell, a stiletto still held in one limp hand.

She raised her head, meeting Alistair's grim eyes, hearing only Leliana's broken sobs.


	30. Surrender

Marjolaine was dead.

The stark reality of it still made Leliana's mind reel. The woman had loomed in her memories for so long, and she realized now that a part of her had always believed – hoped – that one day Marjolaine would appear, say that it had all been a hideous misunderstanding, beg her forgiveness and sweep her back to Val Royeaux and the life that she had lived before.

_Fool._ She wasn't sure what stung worse: the utter folly of such a hope or the knowledge that, having given herself into the Maker's hands, turning her back on what she had been, she could still entertain such yearnings. Not so much for the intrigues and seductions, but the creature comforts, the praise and cosseting received for a job well done, the feeling of being cherished, cared for, safe…even if it had all been an illusion.

That illusion had been shattered two years ago, yet betrayal and torture had apparently been unable to completely quell that pathetic hope, though she'd kept it so well hidden that even she had not known that she still harbored it until it had been shattered again, for good this time.

_You believed what you wished to believe._ Marjolaine's voice, deliberately dismissive, her eyes hard with malice, seeing past her protests as she always had and stripping Leliana bare with her words in front of them all. In front of Talia. She pushed herself up from the fireside. She was supposed to be on watch, but every circuit brought her back to the fire, the flames drawing her eyes with their hypnotic dance, and more often than not, she would pull herself from her reverie to find that she had sunken to the ground. She wasn't even sure how much time remained on her watch; if she had realized how worthless a guard she would be, she would have simply retired to her tent to brood.

Shale stood alone on a slight rise, always vigilant. At least one of them was truly on watch, and tonight, she found herself grateful for the golem's typical silence. When Shale did converse, it was generally to ask questions, and she didn't think she could bear listening to queries about the events in Denerim delivered in that detached, curious tone...or worse, to hear the golem offer his opinion on her folly.

She didn't look at Talia's tent as she passed, but she knew the Warden was there and awake. She should be sleeping, resting; they had raced back to the Pearl, left through the tunnel and traveled through the remainder of the night and the entirety of the next day to get well away from Denerim before stopping to make camp. They were all exhausted, Talia no less than any of the others, and yet, Leliana had sensed the girl's presence as she made each circuit, watchful and worried, but honoring her request for solitude. It made her feel guilty, but at the same time, knowing that Talia was watching over her made her feel safe...which made her feel even more guilty.

Her ties to Marjolaine had come dangerously close to delivering the Grey Wardens into Howe's hands. Talia's determination to protect her had put them all in danger, but still Leliana could find comfort in knowing that the warrior was nearby and on guard, could yearn to feel those arms around her, to know that someone cared about her. That she wasn't alone.

She had trusted Marjolaine. The older, more experienced bard had been her friend, her mentor, her lover, and yet, Leliana had never truly known her at all, it seemed. Looking back, the signs had been there, but she had been blind to them, unable to conceive that the ruses and manipulations that Marjolaine used to get what she wanted from the world, had taught Leliana to use, might ever be turned on her protegee. And the most painful thought of all: perhaps it had been a ruse all along, and she had been so desperate for approval and love that she had not seen it.

Had perhaps been so desperate for approval and love that she had used those same manipulations that Marjolaine had taught her to ensnare an innocent, as she had been ensnared so many years ago.

_You are like me, Leliana. We are the same._

_No. I'm not. We are not the same._ She walked faster, trying to outpace the unwelcome thoughts, but they kept up with her, borne on the memories of her playful flirtations of the last few weeks, flirtations that had begun to develop a more serious undertone in spite of herself as she had become aware of emotions that she had thought she would never feel again. Teasing Talia for her utter indifference to shoes and fashion, talking to her of life in Orlais, singing songs, telling tales, drawing her into the moonlight for a stolen kiss. And always the memory of Talia's eyes on her, intent and serious, trusting Leliana, as Leliana had trusted Marjolaine.

_I'm not like you. I'm not._ She stopped, leaning against a gnarled pine tree, feeling the bark digging into her skin, fear washing over her, stealing her breath, making her want to run, flee back to the Chantry and hide again, immerse herself in the Chant and abandon her foolish vanity about the Maker wanting her to help combat the Blight. Leave before she proved Marjolaine right.

"Leliana?" She flinched at the unexpected sound of Alistair's voice. How had he gotten so close? When she lifted her eyes, she realized that he was wearing his armor, could hear the scrape and creak of the steel plate as he took another step toward her. Maker's breath, the entire camp could have been overrun by darkspawn, and she would have been oblivious, blind and deaf to anything but the sights and sounds of her own accusing mind.

"Are you all right?" he asked when she did not respond. There was only concern in his voice, his eyes, not the censure that should have been given to someone who had so plainly endangered her sleeping comrades with her inattention and that made it even worse.

"I'm fine," she lied, knowing that she was doing it poorly, but knowing that Alistair would not push. "I'm just…tired. It was foolish of me to try to take watch, but I knew that I wouldn't be able to sleep, and I thought –" Her voice wavered, and she clenched her teeth tight, drawing in one shaky breath after another, determined not to cry in front of him. They had all seen enough of her tears the previous night.

"It's all right," he said hastily, plainly seeing how close the tears were, trying to head them off. "It's time to change now. Why don't you try to get some rest? Yesterday had to be hard for you…I mean…"

"It was," she interrupted his stammering with a wan smile. He was no stranger to betrayal and loss, but he was still so impossibly innocent in so many ways. He had never experienced such an intimate bonding with anyone, much less seen it torn asunder. But his sympathy, awkward or not, was welcome: a reminder that she was among friends. Too much of it, however, and she would be bawling on his armor plated shoulder when he was supposed to be guarding the camp. "I will try to get some rest now. Thank you, Alistair." She moved past him, feet carrying her toward the glow of the fire and her own tent at the edge of its light.

"You're well rid of her, you know." His voice, quiet and weighted with an understanding that she hadn't anticipated, almost undid her.

"I…know," she managed before ducking her head and walking quickly to her tent, still not looking toward Talia's. She slipped inside and sank to her knees, fingers moving to the straps of her armor with a blessedly mindless instinct, peeling the leather away piece by piece and setting it aside to air out overnight.

She dipped a hand into one of the pockets in her pack, drawing out a handful of dried white flowers and sprinkling them over the padded cloth that lined the cuirass. As always, the sweet, delicate fragrance swirled around her, stirring up memories, but now the hazy images of her mother were joined by Talia's face on the day that she had given her the first of the flowers.

_"They're lovely, Talia." Leliana accepted the bouquet of white flowers. They were beautiful: the blossoms tiny and fluted in a nest of fern-like leaves, but the girl had never been one for picking flowers. She looked at her friend questioningly._

_Talia gave the bard one of her rare smiles, fleeting and enigmatic. "Smell them."_

_She raised the flowers to her nose, breathing deeply of the sweet and delicate fragrance, hearing her mother singing softly as she folded clothes and put them away. "Andraste's Grace? I haven't seen these in years!"_

_"Mother always called them by that name. I'd forgotten it until you mentioned them before, but they're pretty common here. They grow near water." Talia shrugged awkwardly, looking suddenly shy. "I thought you might like them."_

She'd quickly discovered that the flowers weren't as rare in Ferelden as they had been in Orlais, but she found herself deliberately passing by them as though she hadn't seen, because Talia almost never missed them, picking them and presenting them to her with that same diffident shrug: a gift given with no strings or ulterior motives, simply because Talia knew that the flowers and the memories that they represented were dear to her. And then that night, in the forest...

Her vision blurred again, and she made no attempt to stop the tears now, trying only to keep the sobs that shook her as quiet as possible.

There was the faint whisper of the canvas tent flap being drawn aside, a brief flare of golden light as the fire shone through. Leliana didn't look around; she knew that only one person would enter without announcing their presence, and the soft thud and sigh as Brego dropped to the ground in front of the tent confirmed it. A moment later, Talia knelt beside her, arms folding her into a gentle embrace that she didn't have the strength to fight against. Turning her head, she buried her face in the warmth of the warrior's neck, letting the grief and fear overwhelm her, no longer sure just what she was mourning for or afraid of.

"Hshhh." Talia kept one arm curled around her waist, her free hand slipping softly through the bard's hair in a calming rhythm. "It's all right, Leliana. You're safe here. You're safe." She kept talking, repeating the same words in a soothing cadence.

Leliana clung to her, unable to speak. She _did_ feel safe, but at the same time, she had never felt more precariously balanced. The tears subsided, but she didn't want to let go, and Talia made no attempt to move away.

_So close._ Her lips parted, still pressed against Talia's throat, her heart suddenly racing as she tasted the bitterness of her own grief, felt the answering surge in Talia's pulse, heard the quick intake of breath, and then her arms were locking behind Talia's neck, pulling the warrior's lips down to her own, Talia moving to meet her halfway without hesitation, as though she had been waiting for just such an invitation.

The kiss was sweet fire: Talia, awkward but intense, exploring her mouth with a gentle insistence that made Leliana's head spin, and without meaning to, she found herself guiding her, tilting her head to allow the kiss to deepen, her tongue drawing Talia's into a slow dance that soon quickened, feeling the younger woman responding, learning.

_We are the same, you and I._

"No." She broke the kiss with a gasp, trying to draw away, but Talia did not let her go. "I can't do this." She shook her head, trying to evade the warrior's puzzled gaze, feeling the ache in her chest grow into a tightness that threatened to cut off her breath.

"Why not?" Talia regarded her with a worried frown. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No!" She shook her head again, something between a laugh and a sob escaping her. "Maker, no, Talia. It's me. I'm – " She broke off, unable to articulate the emotions raging out of control in her. "I'm afraid," she managed at last. The words were little more than a whisper, and were a pitifully inadequate description, but they were all that she could get past the tightness in her chest.

Strong fingers stroked over the curve of her shoulder, drifted back to her neck. "I am not Marjolaine."

"I know that, my dear one." She closed her eyes. "You are nothing like her."

"Neither are you." Before she could respond, Talia leaned in to kiss her again, more sure of herself now, and Leliana felt all her reasons for resisting sliding away in the rising tide of desire.

She made herself pull away again. "How do you know that?" she demanded. "Marjolaine deceived me for years. You've known me for months. How can you know what I am like?"

Talia's answer was the gentle sweep of a thumb over her cheek, capturing a falling tear and holding it glistening in the darkness between them.

"Marjolaine could cry." Leliana felt her lips curve into a bitter smile. "She could summon tears at will, make you think that her heart was broken." She swallowed hard. "So could I," she admitted, hating herself for the truth of the admission.

"Are these tears like that?" Talia pressed her stubbornly, her eyes gentle and impossible to look away from.

She shook her head mutely, felt Talia's hand slip to the nape of her neck, fingers kneading the taut muscles. The pressure was a shade too firm to be sensual, but it felt good nonetheless, relaxing her in spite of herself. "You are not the person that you were before. Maybe you never were."

"Maybe," she echoed softly, raising her eyes to Talia's face. Without her armor, she looked smaller, younger, more vulnerable, though Leliana had seen for herself the strength that lay in that deceptively slim frame. Wisps of dark hair had escaped the braid that Leliana had placed it in yesterday morning...a lifetime ago, it seemed now. "So serious," she murmured as her hand came up to brush a lock of errant hair away from the Warden's face, then moving to trace the curve of her cheek, pale fingers contrasting sharply with Talia's dusky skin, slipping down along the jaw, then brushing over her lips, the wanting swelling within her again, almost enough to overcome the fear.

Talia regarded her gravely. "I'm worried about you." The hand at the back of her neck left off its ministrations, moving around to mirror her caress: cheek to jaw to lips, then began its own exploration, drifting up over her brow, out to trace the line of her ear, down along her throat, sword-callused fingers ghosting over skin with surprising delicacy, trailing sparks of electric sensation in their wake. Those dark eyes watched Leliana intently, just as she watched Morrigan mixing her herbs, Zev with his traps and poisons, absorbing what she saw and heard, taking note of her responses: every shiver, every intake of breath. Give it a week, and this inexperienced girl would know all of her secrets, and would have willingly surrendered her own in turn. The thought of it was exhilarating, terrifying.

"There's no need to be, silly." The familiar tease escaped her automatically as she tried for a smile, knowing that she was making a poor show of it.

Talia shrugged. "I can't help it." She looked away briefly, then back, her eyes meeting Leliana's, the hand that traced the bard's features trembling ever so slightly. "I love you."

_Oh, Maker…_ There it was. What she'd been aching to hear these past weeks, offered in Talia's simple and straightforward manner. No flowery speech, but the gentleness in the brown eyes, the tentative touch of her hand spoke more eloquently than any words. A week ago, Leliana would have felt undiluted joy, but now…

"You shouldn't." She forced herself to drop her gaze, her heart breaking. "Talia, I –"

"It's all right," Talia replied quickly…too quickly. The hand dropped away from her cheek abruptly, the arm releasing its hold on her waist, and an instant later, Leliana felt the girl start to push herself to her feet. "I should go."

"No." It was her turn to hang on, refusing to let the Warden rise. Talia fought against her silently, but though she was strong enough to have broken Leliana's hold on her, she didn't try to overpower the bard. "Talia, listen to me. Please?"

The girl subsided wordlessly, her body drawn as taut as a bowstring, her face turned away and set into a rebellious expression that did not quite hide the hurt that completed the job of breaking Leliana's heart.

"Talia, it's not that I don't –" She broke off, panic tightening her chest again. If she said the words, she would be lost. She tried again. "You're young. You should be with someone who is not so – soiled."

"Don't." Talia's head snapped around, anger sparking in her eyes. "Don't say that about yourself."

"It is true, dear one." She smiled sadly. "Everything that Marjolaine told you about me and more."

"She didn't tell me anything that you hadn't told me first. That's in the past." Talia spoke firmly, without a trace of doubt, her arms slipping back around the bard, her forehead resting against Leliana's temple. "That's not you. Not now."

The unshakable faith. The gentle embrace. Leliana wanted nothing more than to close her eyes and lose herself in both. "Perhaps not," she said softly, "but what of the future? Marjolaine was not always as you saw her in Denerim." Another self deception, perhaps, but she could not bear the thought that it had all been a lie. "What you saw was what life had made her, what it could make of me. I should never have left the Chantry. I was safe there."

"You're safe here." The circle of her arms tightened just a bit, and Leliana knew what was going through her mind; she had never forgiven herself for what had happened on the mountain over Haven. "I won't let anyone hurt you. Not again."

She slid her hand around until her fingers found Talia's and laced with them, the motion drawing them still closer together. "You can't protect me from myself. Maker help me, when Marjolaine died, I wished only that I had been the one to kill her. I was glad she was dead."

"Just as I'll be glad when Rendon Howe is dead," Talia replied, her voice hardening. "After what she did to you, what she tried to do, she got a cleaner death than what she deserved."

"She tried to harm you, too," Leliana reminded her. "You and Alistair."

"That was politics," Talia said, dismissing with a shrug the one reason above all others that Leliana would have slit her former lover's throat without hesitation or regret. "It wasn't personal, but the things she said to you... She enjoyed seeing you in pain. She'd have hurt you worse if she got the chance. If she hadn't broken her neck, I'd have killed her anyway." Her expression was bleak, her eyes burning with a dark and cold fire. "I could have drawn her death out over hours, made her beg me to kill her. She deserved it."

A chill ran up Leliana's spine. "No," she whispered, pressing her face into Talia's neck again. "You wouldn't have done that...would you?" If love for her could make Talia descend into such brutality, she _would_ run...as far and as fast as she could, for Talia's sake.

A brief pause, and then she felt the Warden shake her head. "No," Talia confirmed with a sigh. "I'd kill her again, a hundred times, if I had to, to protect you, but I wouldn't torture her for revenge. And neither would you."

Leliana closed her eyes and drew a shaky breath, leaning even more into the embrace. The time for drawing away had slipped past her somehow, and now she couldn't seem to get close enough. "Are you so sure of that?" Her free hand drifted upward to the back of Talia's neck, found the remnant of the braid and began working the remaining hair free of the plait.

"Yes." Talia ducked her head to allow better access, the smoothness of her cheek brushing against Leliana's. "I've seen your dreams, remember?"

"I remember." The Fade. The Chantry and the peace it offered: what the demon had thought she wanted...what _she_ had thought she wanted. And Talia finding her, pulling her away from the lie. The last of the braid loosened, the silken strands tumbling over her fingers. "I think -" Her heart was racing, heat dancing across her skin wherever their bodies touched. "I think that those dreams would be different now."

"How so?" Talia drew back slightly, tilting her head until Leliana was again looking into her eyes, as soft and dark as the night that surrounded them and echoing the question in her words. There was desire there, too, and a vulnerability that, oddly enough, quelled the last of Leliana's own fear, replacing it with a swell of tenderness that could not be denied.

"I think they would be very much like this," she whispered, her hand sliding to cup Talia's cheek as she lifted her lips to meet those of her Warden.

* * *

"You're laughing at me!"

"I'm not!" Leliana protested, unable to suppress another giggle. "Not really. You just look so surprised. It's adorable."

"I can't help it." Talia pushed herself up on one elbow, brushing the bard's hair away from her face, her expression filled with a gentle wonder and puzzlement. "I've never... How can touches feel so _different_?" As if to underscore her words, her fingers drifted down the line of Leliana's neck, tracing the curve of the collarbone, then lower...

Leliana closed her eyes, a delicious shiver running down her spine as she arched up into her lover's caress. "How and where you touch play a large part in it," she replied, a smile curving her lips as she allowed her own hands to roam over Talia's skin, fingers sliding down the warrior's abdomen, feeling the tremor in the muscles at her touch.

"That's part of it," Talia admitted, her eyes darkening with a hunger that made the bard's heart quicken, "but it's more than that." She captured Leliana's hand and raised it to her lips. "Even if you just touch my hand or my cheek, my skin feels like it's on fire." She nipped gently at each fingertip in turn, her gaze never leaving Leliana's face. "And when you kiss me -" She pressed her lips to the inside of the wrist, the tip of her tongue brushing over the pulse point. "Is it because I love you? Is that what makes it different?"

No impassioned declaration could have warmed Leliana more than hearing Talia speak those three words so simply and openly, her tone making them into an immutable fact.

_I love you._

"That's the other part," she agreed, her voice growing husky with renewed desire as Talia's lips continued to explore her hand and wrist. Had she really thought that it would take as long as a week for the girl to learn her secrets? She had seen Talia's focus in other matters, knew how intense she could be, but to be the absolute center of that focus...she had no idea how much time had passed while they had been lost in each other, desire and emotion twisting together into a storm that held them at its center, away from the world outside the tent, away from the past.

She rolled abruptly, flipping Talia onto her back and straddling her hips, pinning her shoulders to the ground. "I love you," she whispered fiercely, staring down into that dear face. She'd said it at the height of passion, though she wasn't sure if the words that had spilled from her in a desperate torrent had been Orlesian or Fereldan. She needed for Talia to hear the words from her now, offered as freely as her own had been. "More than anything."

"More than shoes?" Talia inquired, giving her an impish smile, her hands moving to the bard's hips.

Leliana laughed softly. "She's getting saucy now, is she?" She dipped her head suddenly to attack the soft skin of Talia's throat and was rewarded with a ragged gasp and the feel of strong arms encircling her waist, drawing her down. "I think it's time to put that adorable look of surprise back on your face, my love," she purred, "so pay attention."

"Am I going to be tested later?"

"Oh, yes," the bard promised. "I am far from done with you this night, my love."

* * *

"Never leave me."

"I won't." Talia's breath was warm on her skin as she trailed soft kisses along the line of the bard's jaw. The playful mood had slowly given way to tenderness, and now neither one of them seemed able to get close enough. They lay with arms and legs intertwined, their bodies pressed together so closely that Leliana could no longer tell which of the two racing heartbeats was her own.

"Prom-" Her words trailed off into a moan as Talia found the sensitive spot on her neck, just below her ear, sucking and licking gently at the soft skin. The heat that had been swirling lazily beneath Leliana's skin began to speed up again, gathering low in her belly. She brushed her lips along Talia's shoulder, tasting the light sheen of sweat that had not yet dried, then drew back until she was looking into her lover's face. "Promise me. Promise you'll never leave me."

She'd never asked anyone for such a promise. Never wanted it from any of her lovers, except Marjolaine, but even the foolish girl she had been had known better than to expect such an oath from her mentor. The very notion was absurd, precisely what bards did _not_ do: their affections had to be as fluid as their allegiances, because one never knew when a lover would become an inconvenience to someone. She had taken what Marjolaine had deigned to give her and kept herself distracted with meaningless dalliances the rest of the time.

Later, in Lothering, she had told herself that the solitude was good for her, and a fitting penance for her sins, but from the moment that she had left the Chantry, solitude had deepened into a loneliness that even the friendships that she had formed had been unable to completely assuage. This feeling of happiness, completion, was so new to her, and yet, she did not know how she had survived in its absence, how she would survive, if she lost it now.

_Do you see how she looks at me? That is how she will look at you, once she sees how you truly are. It is only a matter of time._

Talia's hands moved to frame her face: carefully, as though she were holding something both precious and fragile. The warrior had seemed almost afraid of hurting her at first, and even after Leliana had reassured her that she couldn't, her touch had been gentle, reverent. Part of the bard hungered for a more unrestrained passion from her lover, but after all the years where sex had been either a means to an end or hedonistic pleasure for its own sake, their tender lovemaking, every touch conveying emotion too intense for words, had felt almost like being reborn, purified.

"I will never leave you," Talia said softly, her eyes a fathomless ebony in the darkness of the tent, "or stop loving you."

Joy and embarrassment flooded through the bard in near equal measures. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I know that it's silly to ask for such promises in the midst of a war. I know it, it's just that I need...I've never..."

"Hush." Talia silenced her with a kiss, then began to slip downward, lips moving over her skin in a slow and heated path that made it clear that she had indeed been paying attention.

* * *

She awoke and lay in confusion for several moments, disoriented by the amount of light that shone through the canvas overhead. Normally, they were up and breaking camp before dawn, but from the looks of it, morning was well advanced.

How long had it been since she had slept in so late? Or slept so soundly? There had been just one nightmare, of Marjolaine dragging her away from Talia's dead body, but when she had awakened in tears, Talia had been there holding her, warm and alive. Kisses of comfort had quickly turned hungry, and they'd made love again, their passion a fire that seared away the darkness; when she had succumbed once more to sleep, it had been deep and untroubled.

She sighed contentedly now, rolling onto her back and stretching out her arm, encountering only empty blankets. She opened her eyes and sat up; the tent was empty, Talia's clothes gone.

_Well, of course they are_ , she told herself. _She couldn't very well wander about camp naked, could she?_ It was late, after all, and Talia had never been one for sleeping in, but the bard could not quell the sudden stab of worry. Was Talia regretting what had happened last night? Regretting the promise she had made? Had she returned to her own tent before dawn, not wanting the others to know?

Pulling on a tunic and trews, she paused for a moment at the tent flap, suddenly certain that she would emerge to find the rest of the tents gone, that Talia had taken the others and moved on, leaving her alone once more. Even the sound of familiar voices rising on the air did not seem as real as that sudden conviction.

_It is only a matter of time._

"Good morning, sleepyhead!" Alistair called out as she pushed past the canvas. The others were all gathered around the fire...all except Talia and Brego. "You missed breakfast, but lunch should be ready soon." A pot over the fire sent wisps of steam into the air, the savory smell making it clear that Alistair had not been involved in the preparation.

Lunch? She blinked, her eyes trying to adjust to the bright sunlight. "Are we staying here today, then?" Periodic days of rest were not unusual, but they were generally decided the night before. Not that she had been paying much attention to such things when they had stopped to make camp.

"Talia thought we could all use the rest," Alistair replied. Try as she might, Leliana could glean nothing from his words, tone or expression that might indicate whether he knew or not. She hesitated, trying to think past the anxiety that churned in her gut. If Talia wanted to keep what was between them a secret, the bard didn't want to reveal it inadvertently, and if she regretted it...

She bit her lip, trying to summon an air of friendly curiosity. "Have you seen -"

Arms slipped around her from behind, and when she turned her head, her lips were claimed in a kiss that indicated neither regret nor an interest in secrecy. Leliana willingly melted back into the embrace, her hand coming up to weave itself into Talia's hair and her mind drifting longingly to the recently abandoned bed.

"Get a room, you two!" Alistair's good-natured jibe was echoed by Zevran's wolf whistle.

"In a bit," Talia replied as the kiss ended, showing not a trace of self consciousness. "Did you think I'd run off on you?" she added in a lower voice that was for Leliana's ears only.

"Maybe for a minute or two," the bard admitted softly, feeling ashamed of the irrational fear, but Talia simply turned her until they were facing, lowering her head so that their foreheads touched.

"I'm sorry," the Warden told her. "I should have woken you before I left. Brego wanted to go for a run this morning, and you were sleeping so peacefully that I didn't want to disturb you." Gentle fingers traced along her cheek. "Andraste herself could not have looked more lovely."

"That's blasphemy, my love," Leliana reproved her, though she felt herself blushing with pleasure at the compliment.

"Only if it's not true," Talia countered with a smile that made the bard's heart take flight, leaving the fear behind for the moment.

"Such a romantic," she murmured, lifting her head to brush her lips against Talia's.

"Only for you," her lover replied, drawing her into another kiss, slow and deep and filled with hungry promise. The bard felt her knees weaken. Maker, but she was a fast learner!

"Bad enough that we were forced to be privy to last night's performance," Morrigan groused, leaning over the stew pot to give it a stir. "If you plan on an encore, please be so kind as to do it out of the range of our eyes and ears?"

Leliana knew they hadn't been that loud, something that Alistair confirmed before she could speak:

"If I didn't hear anything, there's no way that you could have!"

"As if you could hear anything over your own snoring!"

Talia didn't seem bothered, lifting her head and giving the witch an unrepentant grin. "Fine by me," she said, sliding her hand down Leliana's arm until their fingers laced and pulling her toward the trees, calling over her shoulder, "Everybody rest up today; tomorrow, we start looking for the Dalish!"


	31. Interlude: The Lion and The Jackal Act 2

Loghain waited, seated upon the throne. Maric's throne; his friend and comrade-in-arms had won that throne with blood and courage...and Cailan had turned it into little more than a prop for a boy playing king. Anora...his hopes for her were all but gone; she still grieved for Cailan, and he had not been able to bring himself to tell her that after his numerous infidelities with anything in skirts (at least he hadn't had his father's annoying fascination with elven women) the dilettante king had been planning to set her aside for an Orlesian broodmare. He could spare her that humiliation, at least, though he'd been sorely tempted to shove her face into those cold truths more than once recently.

Their clashes came almost daily now as the tales of those damnable Grey Wardens spread. They had saved a caravan from darkspawn here, reinforced a beleaguered militia there (said militia fighting in open rebellion against Loghain's own forces, damn it!), and now whispers had begun to arise that they had found nothing less than the Sacred Ashes of Andraste.

He was a pragmatic man; he believed next to nothing of the nonsense that the Chantry spoon-fed the masses to keep them docile, but he knew the value of a symbol. He had been a symbol for close to thirty years: the personification of Fereldan resilience and strength, a farmer who had risen to be a Teyrn on the basis of his abilities, rather than the title of his sire. Many had fought beside he and Maric who had possessed such qualities in no less measure, but it was Loghain Mac Tir who was the Teyrn of Gwaren, the Hero of River Dane and Maric's right hand, and he had learned to use those symbols to good effect over the years.

There was a certain, bitter irony in the fact that he was now being outdone by symbols. The Grey Wardens had taken his place as the heroes of the common folk, and the rumors of their discovery of the Sacred Ashes added the appearance of the Maker's favor on top of it, while he had become a symbol of another sort.

He had taken the throne, and the title that accompanied it, because it was necessary to preserve the legacy that he and Maric had fought for, that so many Fereldan patriots had died for, but he could not bring himself to wear the crown. That had not stopped every upstart Bann and Arl in the Bannorn from labeling him a tyrant as they jostled and postured among themselves; the fools could not see that the control and guidance of a king was the only thing that kept them from degenerating back into the seething mass of feuding barbarians that had first spawned Ferelden, united only by the strength and will of Calenhad.

The warrior in him had wanted to storm through Denerim with sword in hand, kick open the door to the estate of the Arl of Denerim and demand answers immediately upon leaving the house in the market district, but cold reason dictated otherwise. Even with the alienage locked down, the streets simmered with barely suppressed fear and hostility, fed by each new rumor that filtered in from the surrounding countryside. At a time such as this, the king could not seem to be out of control, could not indulge his emotions, so he had sent a summons to Howe - accompanied by an 'honor guard' of a dozen men that he knew to be trustworthy - and waited to see if the jackal would run.

Cauthrien stood behind the throne and slightly to his right, as still as stone, her cobalt eyes fixed on the door and the Summer Sword secured to her back, ready to be drawn with deadly speed. She followed him as she always had: without question, but he had seen the doubts beginning to shadow even her face of late, though never when anyone else could see.

The door to the throne room opened, and Captain Kylon stepped through, bowing and moving aside to make way for Rendon Howe. Elevating that individual for his bravery and removing him from the scut detail of the market patrol had been one of Loghain's few satisfactions since returning to Denerim, and had provided him with a levelheaded man to command the palace guard.

"You sent for me, Your Majesty?" Howe was outwardly calm and as smoothly obsequious as ever, but Loghain thought he could see something behind those dark, close set eyes. Not for the first time, it occurred to him that Howe more closely resembled a rat than a jackal.

"I received an unusual missive last night," Loghain told him as the rest of Kylon's men filed into the room and took up positions against the wall. None of the Arling's own guard had been permitted to accompany the Arl, and the significance of this fact could not be lost upon Howe, yet he displayed no hint of discomfort. "This morning, actually, just before sunrise."

"Oh?" was all that he said, his expression one of polite interest. His cool head made him an asset in politics, as well as battle, but it made him a formidable adversary, as well, a fact that Loghain never forgot.

"A note was delivered, suggesting that I would find a great deal to interest me in a certain house in the market district," Loghain went on. He had attempted to interrogate the courier, but it soon became obvious that the scrap of parchment had passed through so many hands that finding its point of origin would be all but impossible. "When we arrived, we found a house filled with corpses, including several qunari and a woman dressed in Orlesian garb." It was all but certain that the qunari were mercenaries, a class that Loghain could feel nothing but contempt for. Any cause that had to pay people to fight for it was no cause at all, and a man whose loyalty could be bought could also be bought out.

"Shocking," Howe murmured. "I take it that whoever was responsible had vacated the premises?"

"Several hours earlier, from the state of the bodies," Loghain confirmed, pausing for a moment before continuing, "There was, however, one survivor, bound and gagged in the midst of the carnage." Ah, that got to him; there was the slightest clenching of the jaw, a barely perceptible narrowing of the eyes. "He had an interesting tale to tell...but I suspect that you already know it."

There was a moment, a fraction of a second in which Loghain could see Howe weighing whether to deny everything or try to salvage the situation with part of the truth.

"I must beg your forgiveness, Your Majesty," the Arl said, his features a perfect mask of repentance. "When the Contessa appeared in Denerim with no warning, I thought it best to seize the opportunity that presented itself. I'd hoped to be able to make a gift of the Wardens to you, along with the Orlesian spy who accompanies them as proof to your daughter -" He broke off with a convincing look of reluctance, and Loghain felt the first stirrings of unease.

"Proof to my daughter of what?" he asked.

Instead of answering, Howe glanced back to the guardsmen. "Perhaps this is an issue that should be discussed in greater privacy?" His tone remained diffident - always diffident - but there was the faintest gleam of something unpleasant in his eyes that he was careful to show only to Loghain - and Cauthrien.

Loghain did not bother to hesitate; Howe was not the type to bluff. "Leave us," he ordered curtly. Captain Kylon bowed immediately and led his men from the room, his face giving no clues as to how he felt about the dismissal. A professional, as well as a man of honor; there were far too few of his kind remaining in Ferelden.

Only Cauthrien did not move, her eyes fixed on Howe. She knew that she was not expected to leave unless he dismissed her by name. A word from Loghain, and she would be upon the Arl like a cat pouncing on a rat. He could tell Kylon whatever he chose; the captain would not question him, and Rendon Howe would be mourned by few.

But that would leave him the task of finding a replacement, and whatever his faults might be, the Arl of Denerim and Amaranthine was effective. He leaned back on the throne, watching Howe expectantly without speaking.

The Arl glanced around, making a show of being certain that the room had emptied. "My men intercepted a courier bound for Orlais: a royal courier. He bore a letter from the Queen to Empress Celene in which she asks that the Orlesian Grey Wardens be sent to Ferelden to determine if the darkspawn threat signals a true Blight."

Loghain felt his pulse hammering dully in his temples, his fingers curling tightly into the carved wood of the throne's arms. His daughter had asked the Orlesians for help? "Where is this letter?" His voice sounded strangely distant in his own ears, but still controlled and calm.

"Secured in my own offices, of course," Howe replied confidently. "I hoped to spare you this, and when the opportunity arose to capture the Grey Wardens and the spy, I took it upon myself to do so, hoping that being presented with irrefutable proof of Orlesian duplicity would make her see reason."

"You lying snake!" Cauthrien took a half step forward, looking at the Arl with loathing. "You yourself have been urging cooperation with the Orlesians, and now you have the nerve to -"

"Enough." Loghain silenced her with that one calm word and a slightly upraised hand, his eyes never leaving Howe. The letter was real; he had no doubt of that. Howe had hidden it away as insurance in case his own machinations were discovered. If Loghain punished the Arl for his association with the Orlesian whore they'd found dead in that house, it would quickly become common knowledge that the Queen herself had requested aid from their erstwhile oppressors, making it all but impossible to establish any control over the nobility. Half of them were ready to go crawling to Celene already, while the rest hated Orlais with a virulence that all but guaranteed they would turn on Anora if they knew.

The notion of killing Howe surfaced briefly once more, but he had little doubt that the man had a contingency in place for such an occurrence that would ensure that the letter was made public. The man was a planner, adept in politics and intrigue in ways that Loghain could never match: ways that Loghain needed, if he was to have any hope of success.

"I will deal with my daughter," he said, feeling the weight of those words settling on his shoulders. "There are to be no further attempts by you to apprehend the Wardens. You are to turn your attentions to securing the loyalties of the Bannorn, by any means possible." If he had to beat them all into submission, there would be none left to fight the darkspawn...or the Orlesians. Different measures were required.

"I understand, Sire." Howe bowed deeply, the motion not quite swift enough to conceal the look of smug satisfaction on his face at finally being granted free rein, and Loghain felt his jaw clench. "There was one other matter that I wished to bring to your attention: I have been contacted by representatives of the Tevinter Imperium regarding an opportunity that will reduce the overcrowding in the alienage and add much needed coin to the royal coffers."

Slavery. Howe knew better than to couch it so bluntly, but with Tevinter involved, it could be little else. The notion of selling any Fereldan into servitude should have been abhorrent, and yet, might it not be the best solution for all involved?

No. He would not lie to himself. Granted, the conditions in the alienage were beyond squalid, and the lock-down was in place as much to protect the elves from the other residents of Denerim as to control the rebellious elements within, but the real reason lay in Tevinter gold. Running a kingdom was expensive; fighting a war was doubly so, and when fully half of the nobles refused to pay taxes...

"Do it," he ordered curtly, hating himself for the words, for needing this wretch of a man that was as unlike Maric as night was unlike day. Howe bowed again and departed, and Loghain knew that he would hear no more of the matters that had been spoken of today, aside from the results: oaths of fealty, whether coerced or purchased, and gold that could be obtained no other way.

"Tevinter is little better than Orlais," Cauthrien said as the heavy door swung shut behind the Arl. "They would be just as eager to conquer us, given the chance. We don't need them. We don't need _him_." Her voice was low, pleading with him to be the man that he had once been: the Hero of Ferelden.

He could not meet her eyes. "Yes, we do."

That man was gone. Ferelden was all that was left.


	32. Pillow Talk

"I know that look."

Leliana had tipped her head back to regard Talia, her eyes heavy lidded with a pleasant weariness that the Warden shared. The dawn excursion had a purpose beyond allowing her mabari to stretch his legs; she'd snagged her bedroll from her own tent and gone in search of a place far enough from camp to give them some privacy, though not so far as to leave them isolated if trouble arose.

She and Brego had made a thorough patrol of the area, the hound's keen nose scenting nothing that might pose a threat, and her own senses assuring her that no darkspawn were in the area. She'd heard rumors and tales about the Brecilian Forest and the mysteries that lurked within, but at its edges were only towering trees of incalculable age: pine and oak, fir and spruce, their spreading branches alternately casting the sun's beams into a cool green light or allowing it through the thinning deciduous canopy to dapple the forest floor and bring autumn flowers to bloom.

Beneath the trees was a paradise of ferns and flowers and twisting streams that wound between the massive roots and tumbled over small waterfalls into crystal clear pools below. It was beside one such pool that she'd laid out the blankets, at the foot of a giant oak whose falling leaves permitted the sunlight to shine through its branches onto the moss covered ground. She'd lingered there for a time as the sun rose, awed by the peaceful beauty and quiet power of the forest, her mind still reeling from the strength of the emotions that the previous night had released in her.

Giddy. It was a term she'd used derisively in describing the behavior of other young women caught in the throes of infatuation: the serving girls at Highever mooning over the soldiers, Delilah Howe's crush on Vaughan Urien, but Maker help her, it was the only word that she could come up with to describe herself. Alistair had been kind enough not to rib her about it when she'd informed him that they would be staying there for the day, but she had caught the hint of a smile on his lips.

The feeling of quiet exultation was new to her, something utterly different from the savage energy that gripped her in battle, but just as impelling in its own way, pushing her to _do_ something. She wanted to make her bard smile, see those incredible eyes light up with surprise and pleasure. In a fit of romantic inspiration, she had spent the better part of an hour gathering up every sprig of Andraste's Grace that she could find and arranging them around her chosen bower.

Then, of course, she had spent the better part of the next hour second guessing herself, wondering if the gesture was a ludicrous one and debating whether to simply remove them. Through it all, Brego was beside her, listening patiently to her ditherings and giving an approving chuff when she decided, with no small amount of trepidation, to leave the flowers as they were.

As it turned out, she needn't have worried. Leliana had been delighted...and most appreciative. They'd spent the afternoon making love; the fierce urgency that had driven them the previous night had burned down to a slow and steady warmth, languorous and decadent as they explored each other with a tender deliberation while Brego patrolled a wide perimeter to guard against intrusions. For perhaps the last half hour, they had simply been holding each other, watching the autumn leaves flutter down to the surface of the pool, sending out tiny ripples in the water that the sunlight instantly bejeweled. Despite the peace of the moment, Talia had felt a subtle tension growing in Leliana's body, and her attention had turned from the water to the bard's face...and of course, Leliana had noticed.

"You have something on your mind," she went on, reaching out to retrieve one of the sprigs of flowers and drawing them teasingly down Talia's nose.

The warrior caught her hand and kissed it. "I was just wondering if you wanted to talk."

The redhead quirked a smile at her. "As opposed to what we've been doing, you mean?" she asked, lifting a foot and drawing it along Talia's leg suggestively.

"No fair trying to distract me," Talia protested with a distinct lack of vehemence. She strongly suspected that, should the bard put her mind to it, she could successfully distract her from anything short of a darkspawn attack.

"All's fair in love and war, my Warden," Leliana quoted, but she twisted in Talia's arms until they were facing, nestling her head in the angle between the warrior's neck and shoulder, and Talia marveled anew at the sweet way that every curve of her lover's body molded to hers and how right it seemed. She wondered if this was what her parents had felt, or Fergus and Oriana. The thought made her tighten the circle of her arms instinctively, her mind shying away from the notion of losing what she had just found.

"I was just thinking," Leliana murmured, snuggling even closer, as if to draw strength from the contact. "She knew where I was all the time, and she just watched, waiting until she could use me again. It's as though I had never really escaped her."

"You have now," Talia said quietly, pressing her lips to the bard's temple. No need to ask who 'she' was.

"Yes," Leliana agreed, then fell silent for several moments before continuing. "How could I have known her for all those years...and still not know her at all?"

"Bards are supposed to be skilled at deception, aren't they?" Talia spoke carefully, drawing her fingers through her lover's hair, watching the sunlight take fire in the silken strands.

"They are," Leliana replied with a faint snort, "but they are also supposed to be adept at detecting deception, as well. You are taught to trust no one, to always guard your back. That is why Marjolaine was the way she was. That is what life made of her...what I fear it could make of me." The last words were little more than a whisper.

"If you had stayed in Orlais, perhaps." Talia weighed her words cautiously. "People do what they have to do to survive, but your life is different now. You have people that you can trust, people to guard your back." Her fingers traced along the bard's spine, down and back up again. "Not just me, either."

Leliana made a contented sound in her throat, but her eyes were still shadowed with doubt. "I know that. I do, but what Marjolaine said -"

Talia silenced her with a finger to her lips. "Marjolaine lied," she said firmly, tipping the Orlesian's head back until they were looking into each other's eyes. "The things she said: she knew they would hurt you, make you doubt yourself. If you were really so much like her, what she said wouldn't have affected you, and she knew that. What she said was what she wanted you to believe...maybe even what _she_ wanted to believe, but it was all lies."

"Not all of it," the bard disagreed with a shake of her head. "I _was_ bored at the Chantry. What we do now: the traveling, the adventure, the excitement, even the killing, makes me feel invigorated, alive."

"But you don't kill needlessly," Talia reminded her. "You convinced me to have mercy on Loghain's men back in Lothering, and many times since then. We've never killed anyone who wasn't trying to kill us, have we?"

"No," Leliana replied softly, "but to enjoy it -"

"What is it that you enjoy?" Talia pressed her. "The killing itself, or the fight...the challenge?" The look on her lover's face was all the answer she needed, and she continued. "It's the same for me, and has been since the first time I picked up a sword. I love to fight, to test my skill against an opponent and best them. I don't enjoy killing, but it satisfies me when we kill darkspawn or bandits, knowing that they'll never be able to hurt anyone else." She brushed her thumb along the bard's cheek. "I don't think either one of us was cut out for a quiet life, but that doesn't make us evil, does it?"

"No, but -"

"No buts," Talia said firmly. "Did you ever hear Marjolaine wondering if she was doing the right thing, if she might be hurting innocent people with her games?"

"Never." Leliana shook her head, understanding beginning to dawn on her face.

"I doubt that Rendon Howe gives such things much thought, either," the Warden told her. "Evil doesn't worry about being good."

"That...does make a certain amount of sense," Leliana conceded, "but it still worries me sometimes that I still use the things that I was taught, often without even stopping to think about it. I - I even used them on you sometimes," she confessed, cheeks flushing and eyes dropping in shame.

"Did you?" Talia cocked her head, thinking back, trying to pinpoint those times. She thought she could remember a few...now. "Did they work?"

"Not like they should have," the bard replied with a rueful expression. "You were the most frustratingly obtuse creature I'd ever encountered. I could have stepped naked into your tent, and all you would have done was ask me where my clothes were and offered me a cloak!"

"Quite possibly," the Warden admitted sheepishly. "I'd never really given much thought to romantic notions. When I was at Highever, I knew that it would be only a matter of time before my parents pressed me into a 'good' marriage, though they would never have made me wed someone that I didn't at least like. And after..." She trailed off, her eyes growing distant for a moment. "I thought my heart was dead. I couldn't imagine caring about anyone at all, let alone loving them. So, why did you do it?" she went on after another thoughtful pause. "Were you trying to manipulate me into doing your will, the way Marjolaine did to you?" She knew the answer well enough, but it was plain that her bard still doubted herself.

"No!" Leliana pulled away slightly, looking distressed at the question. "I just...wanted to make you love me. I'd never met anyone like you: honest and brave and honorable...but so sad. I wanted to take your hurt away, wanted to make you mine. I had no right to trick you into it, but I had never learned any other way, and now -" She ducked her head, seeming on the verge of tears, but Talia followed, capturing her lips in a kiss, using everything that she had learned in the past few hours until Leliana responded with a fierce hunger, clinging to her as though afraid she might vanish.

"Trick me?" Talia asked, drawing back just far enough to speak, brushing gentle kisses over her lover's face between words. "I fell in love with the woman who was ready to die alongside the brave souls who defended Lothering, who braided my hair every morning, who risked her own life to save me from my stupidity, who always believed in me and never let me stop believing that we were doing the Maker's work." She cupped the Orlesian's face in her hands, smiling at her. "Those weren't tricks. They were the real Leliana: the one that Marjolaine wanted to destroy. You were too strong for her. I am yours now, and you are mine, and nothing can change that. I love you."

" _Je t'aime_ ," Leliana whispered, meeting her kisses. "Your words make my heart sing, my love. When I left Orlais, I sought only to escape my fate. Then I found the Chantry and realized that I could atone for the sins of my past. I expected nothing else, but I walked where the Maker led me, and He has rewarded me for my faith. I found you."

"We found each other," Talia murmured, burying her face against the bard's hair, breathing deep of the scent of flowers and moonlight. She could happily have spent the remainder of the day thus, but - "There are things that I need to tell you," she said slowly. "Things about the Grey Wardens."

"You don't have to." Leliana watched her closely, smoothing the hair away from her face with a gentle hand. "I know that the Wardens have their secrets, and I would not ask you to reveal them."

"You need to know," Talia insisted, knowing that it was more than that. She needed to tell of the things that she'd been able to share with no one but Alistair to this point. "I understand why the Wardens want such things kept secret, but I don't want to keep secrets from you. If we're going to be together, then you deserve to know it all."

"That doesn't sound promising." Leliana tried to keep her tone light, but there was no hiding the worry in her eyes as she pressed the Warden onto her back and propped herself up on an elbow beside her.

"It's not so bad as all that," Talia assured her. "It's not as though we're forbidden to take lovers or anything like that. It's just..." She trailed off, trying to decide where to start, and finally settling on the beginning. "When Duncan came to Highever, he intended to recruit my friend, Rodrick Gilmore."

"Just a friend?" Leliana teased her, a hint of curiosity in her eyes.

"My best friend at Highever, I guess," Talia admitted, then chuckled. "We got into more trouble, and he'd always try to take the blame, but Mother knew better. We could fight each other to a standstill in the practice ring, though, and Duncan took an interest in both of us, but Papa wouldn't hear of it: he said that sending one child off to war was enough for now."

She closed her eyes, seeing their faces, hearing their voices, allowing the hated face of Rendon Howe to blur away. The pain was there, still chained, but she could reach past it to the memories before, taking a strange comfort in the bittersweet ache of sharing them with the one she loved.

Leliana's fingers, cool upon her cheek. "What happened?"

She kept her eyes closed, letting the images unfold behind them. "When Howe attacked, Rory led the ones who held the main gate. I tried to get him to come with us, but he refused. He had his duty, he said, and my duty was to get my mother to my father. He was right," she sighed, "but there was no way that Howe's men would have passed while he lived."

"I'm sorry." The kiss pressed to her cheek was a soothing balm, and the warm presence nestled at her side pushed the pain to a safe distance, allowing her to go on.

"When Duncan came into the larder, I thought..." She shook her head, a self-deprecating smile on her lips. "Grey Wardens were heroes, and I think that part of me expected the attack to end, just because he was there." That moment, when she had realized that he was as powerless to stop what was happening as the rest of them, had been the true marking point of the end of her childhood. "He agreed to take me out of Highever with him, but his price to my father was that I join the Wardens."

"His price?" Leliana stared at her, appalled. "How could he demand such a thing when your father lay dying?"

"Peace." Talia opened her eyes, putting a gentle finger to her bard's lips and giving her a sad smile. "He did what his own duty demanded of him. There were barely two dozen Ferelden Wardens at Ostagar; with a Blight staring him in the face, he needed recruits, and if I hadn't had that to focus on, I don't know that I would have survived those first days. Besides," she rolled to face the Orlesian, "if I hadn't become a Grey Warden, we likely never would have met."

"There is that," Leliana agreed softly, lips brushing over hers in the gentlest of kisses.

"That didn't stop me from hating Duncan, mind you. I made that man's life miserable from Highever to Ostagar. Brego was so confused; he knew I didn't want to be there, but he wasn't supposed to attack Duncan...so he pissed on his armor any time he took it off."

"Oh, my!" The bard giggled. "Wasn't he furious?"

"He was actually a pretty good sport about it," Talia admitted, "but then, picking a fight with a grumpy mabari is never a good idea anyway. At Ostagar, I met the other two recruits. Daveth was a thief in Denerim; Duncan conscripted him after he tried to cut his purse. The guards were going to hang him otherwise. I liked him. Ser Jory," she shrugged. "He was a bit of a prig, but he was a decent fighter; he'd won a tournament in Denerim, which was why Duncan chose him. He'd left his wife behind, pregnant with their first child."

She spoke of their time in the Wilds, of hoping against hope to find Fergus and encountering Morrigan and Flemeth for the first time, skirting ever closer to the Joining.

"You know that Alistair and I can sense the darkspawn, that we can feel them in our dreams." She felt Leliana nod in affirmation; the bard had seen that often enough. Talia drew a deep breath, remembering. "We can do that because, during the Joining, we drink darkspawn blood."

"You...drank it?" The bard's eyes were wide. "But it's poisonous, isn't it?"

"It is, but the Wardens do something to it." She gave Leliana a wry smile. "Another one of those things that never got passed to Alistair and me. It's still not exactly harmless, though. Daveth was the first one to drink it; I thought it was all right for a moment, but then he fell down and started convulsing, his eyes rolled white. He was dead in seconds."

"Maker's mercy." Leliana's arms folded around her, and she willingly leaned into the embrace, the warmth warding off the chill from within. "Does that happen often?"

"Often enough that they don't want to advertise it, I guess."

"But that's not fair!" the Orlesian exclaimed indignantly. "To not tell them of such a risk -"

"How many would come forward, if they knew?" Talia asked softly. "To be a Grey Warden is to face death, and those that are lost in the Joining are given the same reverence as those who fall in battle."

The bard searched her face briefly before nodding. "What of the other one, Ser Jory? Did he die, as well?"

"He did." This had been the hardest moment for her to accept, and telling it was proving even harder than she had anticipated. "When Daveth died, he panicked, saying that he no longer wanted to go through with it. Duncan wouldn't allow him to back out, though, and when Jory drew a sword and tried to fight...Duncan killed him." Her voice sounded flat and lifeless in her ears, all but lost beneath the memory of Jory's pleadings and Duncan's quiet apology.

"That's - that's horrible!" Leliana cried. "His wife...his child. Why couldn't Duncan have let him go?"

"How many do you think would ask to be released, once they knew the cost?" Talia wanted to know, feeling the weight settling on her. She knew now why there had always been that distant sadness in Duncan's eyes, and not being able to tell him that she understood it would be one of her life's great regrets. "They know when they agree to join that death is always possible. To let them go because the death they risk doesn't fit their ideas of glory..." She shook her head. "It can't be done, if the Grey Wardens are to continue, and if -" She swallowed, looking away from the bard. "When Alistair and I learn how to perform the Joining and begin to rebuild the Wardens in Ferelden, we will do as Duncan did."

She kept her eyes turned away, her heart thudding dully in her chest. She should have spoken of this before anything had happened between them, but it had all come about so quickly that she had never even thought about it until she had already surrendered her heart, and now... "I am a Grey Warden, Leliana," she whispered, "and for the sake of my family and the Wardens who died at Ostagar, I have to do my duty as a Grey Warden."

Gentle hands caught her face, lifting it to the tender regard of cerulean eyes. "Then I will do my best to heal the wounds that harsh duty inflicts upon you, my Warden," Leliana told her, the final words more felt than heard as she kissed the warrior. The breath that she didn't realize she'd been holding escaped Talia in a half sob, and she crushed her lips to the bard's, pain and relief sweeping through her in a bittersweet wash.

"Thank you," she murmured when they finally parted.

"You have accepted me as I am," Leliana replied. "I would do no less for you." She snuggled closer with a contented sigh. "So, what other Grey Warden secrets am I to be privy to?"

"Well, the darkspawn blood changes us," Talia said, resting her cheek against the Orlesian's hair. "That's what's behind the increased appetite, for one thing."

The bard giggled. "That's hardly a secret to anyone who's seen you and Alistair eat!"

"I'm not as bad as he is," Talia protested, knowing that she was using the levity to ease her way into the more difficult admissions, "but there are other changes, as well. Apparently, it's difficult for Grey Wardens to have children...not that that's anything we had to worry about anyway." She wondered briefly if Leliana wanted children, but decided that was a subject that could be discussed another time.

"No," Leliana said thoughtfully, "but that's something that Arl Eamon might need to know about before he gets too set on the notion of making Alistair king. Without an heir, the kingdom would be no better off than it is now after he dies."

"I'm hoping they'll see it that way," Talia agreed, "but with the situation with Loghain what it is, if there is no more suitable candidate, there may not be a choice. For all that Alistair has his hopes pinned on Eamon, he's old, and with Connor destined for the Circle, he has no heir, either."

"I suppose we've got time yet before we need to worry about that," Leliana reasoned, craning her neck to look into Talia's face, "but there's something else, isn't there?"

"Yes," the Warden admitted. "The darkspawn blood: whatever they do to it for the Joining ritual keeps it from killing us, at least the ones that don't die outright, but it's still a poison; it just...takes longer to act."

"Longer to -" Leliana's words broke off as the realization sunk in. A moment later her voice, low and tightly controlled. "How long?"

"Thirty years, give or take a few," Talia quoted Alistair. It had seemed an eternity when he had told her, considering she had not yet seen her eighteenth birthday then, but now... "Alistair said that the nightmares start getting worse when you're getting close to - He said that most Grey Wardens go to Orzammar, to the Deep Roads to die in battle with the darkspawn, rather than die slowly from the Taint."

Leliana was silent, her face pressed against Talia's shoulder.

"I promised I'd never leave you, and I mean it," the warrior said earnestly. "Death is the only thing that will take me from you, and I won't go easily."

"I know." When the bard raised her head, her eyes were bright, but no tears fell. "Thirty years, thirty days, thirty minutes...life is never certain; either one of us could fall in battle with no warning."

"No." Talia shook her head violently against the memory of what the dragon had done. "I won't let you -"

Leliana silenced her with a kiss, slow and sweet. "I will take whatever time that I am given with you, my Warden," she whispered, her arms drawing Talia back into the private world of their lovemaking. "Let us always live and love as if there may be no tomorrow."


	33. Of Elves and Werewolves

At the tender age of thirteen, Zevran had defiantly announced his intention to run away from the Crows and join the Dalish, his mother's kinsmen. He probably should have suspected that something was amiss when the apprentice master had laughed uproariously and told him to go right ahead.

Instead he had gone, and after a week of wandering the forests of Antiva, hungry, exhausted and covered with welts from every biting insect in existence, he had been found by a Dalish clan. After his relief at being rescued had faded, reality set in quickly: life in a forest was boring. One tree looked very much the same as the next, and while the flowers were pretty enough, on any corner in Antiva City were hothouse blooms in sufficient color and variety to put them to shame. Squirrels and jays were poor substitutes for the talented street performers and musicians, and not a one of them had a belt pouch that could be lifted.

The Dals themselves were pleasant enough, but quite staid and proper; their idea of a celebration was a night beside the campfire telling tales that had originated centuries earlier, and despite their avowed philosophy that all things belonged equally to each member of the clan, they proved remarkably inflexible when he attempted to apply the principle to himself. Add to that the discovery that he was allergic to the halla, and the would-be Dal found himself thinking longingly of the familiar sights, sounds and smells of city life.

As soon as the clan's wanderings brought them near a trade route, he had parted company and made his way back to Antiva City and the Crows, paying a sizable sum ('donated' by his erstwhile hosts, of course) as a fine to the apprentice master to regain his old position, and since then, he had given the Dalish little thought.

The Ferelden Dalish seemed very like their Antivan counterparts, though the structure of their aravels was somewhat heavier, undoubtedly to provide better traction in the snows of winter. The elves themselves showed the customary distrust of humans and contempt for any 'flat-ear' who traveled in their company. While Talia and Alistair conversed with Zathrian, the clan's Keeper, and his First, Lanaya, the rest of them had been politely - but firmly - escorted to a fire at the edge of the encampment (and fortunately upwind of the halla herd). The glances cast their way ranged from fearful to curious to openly hostile, but none approached them.

"One would think, given their present circumstance, that they would be more gracious to those offering to assist them," Morrigan observed disdainfully, sipping at the heated drink they had been offered: an infusion of the bark of some tree, sweetened with honey.

The groans and cries from the aravel that served as a makeshift infirmary carried clearly, and the group could see better than a score of men and women laid out on cots and pallets with bandages covering wounds that still seeped blood. That in and of itself was odd: Zevran knew that the elves had magic of their own that they were careful to conceal from humans. Between magical healing and the extensive herblore of the Dalish, treating even serious injuries should have been a routine matter; instead, what looked to be the bulk of the clan's hunters lay incapacitated, and -

"They're afraid," Leliana spoke up, her pretty face grave. "And not only of whatever attacked them. They fear the ones who have been hurt, as well."

She was right; the few who tended the injured moved swiftly among their charges, offering only brief gestures of comfort, and the perimeter of the area was ringed with armed guards whose grim attention was turned inward, and whose hands never strayed far from their bows or dar'misaan. Wynne's offer of assistance had been politely but curtly refused.

The bard rose from the fireside, her expression purposeful. One of the Dalish moved to block her before she had gone more than a few steps, but she spoke with him, her voice low and earnest, and after a moment, he led her toward the fire in the center of the encampment, where the clan storyteller could most likely be found. At this time of day, he would be teaching the tales of Elvhenan and Arlathan to the young.

From the corner of his eye, Zev caught Talia turning her head ever so slightly to follow Leliana's path, then shifting her position subtly to allow her to see both the bard and the rest of her companions while still listening to Zathrian's words. He'd been watching the pair ever since they had made their affections known, looking for weaknesses. If he had still been of a mind to carry out the assignment that had brought him to Ferelden, such weaknesses would have been openings to be exploited: either working to arouse jealousies or to take advantage of their preoccupation with each other. Now, he looked for such openings to be better able to guard them against others who might seek to finish his work. In the interest of self preservation, of course.

Thus far, he had been mildly encouraged. Though they were well nigh inseparable in camp unless one or the other was on watch, once the tents were packed and they were back on the road, both women were all business, save for the occasional exchange of smiles. In the week that it had taken them to track down this Dalish clan, there had been only one incident of discord. The group had been ambushed by what had turned out to be a sizable group of bandits, and when the fighting had been forced into a savage and close melee by the trees, the Orlesian had abandoned her bow and joined the fray. Not an unusual or inappropriate action, but Talia had been furious with her all the same. A lively argument had resulted, ending with Talia stalking away from camp and Leliana following her. The ensuing conversation had taken place well away from the ears of the rest of them, but judging from the time it had taken and the change in both their demeanors when they had finally returned, the elf would have bet his boots that the bard had finally shown their leader a more entertaining outlet for the pent up energies that sometimes lingered after a fierce battle.

Well...perhaps not his boots. He stretched his legs, admiring the footwear. Real Antivan leather: his country's tanners used a unique process that gave their product a distinctive smell. Buttery soft and supple, yet resilient and resistant to water, the boots hugged his feet as though they had been made for him. He cleaned them thoroughly each night and slept with them beside his pillow, the rich aroma of the leather filling his dreams with images of home and far more creative uses of leather.

That Talia had managed to find them was no less a surprise than the fact that she had paid attention to his ramblings about his homeland. The gift had been welcome, but puzzling: he already owed her his life, so there had been no need for her to bind him to her further. He had thought at first that she still did not trust his loyalty and thought to secure it by such favors, but further observation had shown that she seemed to enjoy giving such gifts to all her companions, even those whose loyalties were beyond doubt. She had even managed to pry from the taciturn qunari the fact that he considered the work of skilled artists the result of the same discipline that was required by warriors and thus something to be admired. It was rather amusing to watch the big man solemnly contemplating the delicate carving on a cameo, or an oil painting of a pastoral scene (he kept such works carefully rolled up in a large leather cylinder, rather like an enormous scroll case).

She cared. It was an understanding that had come slowly to him, and he was still struggling to understand how something that he had always been taught was an exploitable vulnerability could instead be a strength. The risk that Talia had taken to deal with the threat to Leliana had been an audacious one, and it would be all too easy to dismiss it as the reckless impulse of a lovestruck youth, but the Antivan knew by now that she would have taken the same risk for any of them. The others clearly knew this, as well, and responded by willingly accepting the risks that she asked of them. It was a loyalty utterly unlike that which had been commanded of him by the Crows, whose leaders took only those risks that were necessary to maintain their supremacy and controlled their followers through fear and coercion.

Nor was the loyalty directed only towards Talia; even the members of the fellowship that did not particularly like one another respected the abilities of their companions, and any bickerings that arose in camp at night were immediately set aside when the tents were packed the next morning. The sense of unity, of purpose felt surprisingly good, and the fact that it was rarely boring didn't hurt, either. Perhaps that was why he had traded in the favor that Isabela owed him to aid the Warden so readily...or perhaps it really was what he had told himself at the time: keeping Talia alive and himself in her good graces was his best chance of escaping the vengeance of the Crows.

He gave a sidelong glance in Morrigan's direction. Outwardly, the witch seemed to have settled into her own place in the group, continuing to trade barbs with Alistair and bait Sten, but the elf could still sense the secrets swirling beneath that imperious – and quite delectable – countenance. Not that he intended to expend any great effort to find them out, mind you; the one secret that he knew had not been quite enough for her to kill him, but he held no illusions about how she would react if he were to acquire a second...or a third.

It didn't stop him from musing on it, playing with the notion the way a lazy cat might bat at a bit of string without making the effort to actually chase it. How many secrets did she hide? He was almost certain that one had been added a few weeks back, sometime around the time they had visited Haven. Since then, she had been unusually tense and wary, her eyes searching the horizons when she thought herself unobserved, and there had been a subtle but unmistakeable shift in the balance of power between she and Talia, in the favor of the Warden. Talia could silence her with little more than a look these days, though it was not a prerogative she exercised often.

Almost, it could be taken for romantic interest, the way the witch watched the warrior...but only almost. She seemed uncertain, almost fearful at times, something that obviously did not agree with her. She had taunted Alistair mercilessly on the day that Talia had laid her claim to Leliana, taking great pleasure in pointing out that the two most available females in the group had chosen each other over him. Wynne had looked ready to backhand her, but Alistair had only burst out laughing, the sound entirely too merry to be false, and the witch had been forced into retreat, muttering a halfhearted jibe about his lack of manhood.

She did have a bit of a point; even Zevran felt a pang of regret at seeing both women placed so neatly out of reach, and he hadn't been the one who seemed to be trying to decide which one to pine for. The man's lack of dejection seemed genuine, however, and he had settled smoothly into a brotherly affection. Either the most honorable man Zevran had met or the craziest...not that the two conditions were mutually exclusive, in the elf's experience.

Movement caught his eye, and he turned his head to see Alistair and Talia walking through the camp toward them. Though Talia was not so tall as Alistair, both Wardens towered over the Dalish, their heavy armor making the difference even more marked. Leliana left the storyteller with a graceful bow and joined the pair, her hand slipping into Talia's seemingly without thought from either of them.

"Let me guess: they have a problem, and only we can help?" Zev offered with an impudent grin as they drew near.

"That wouldn't be a guess," Alistair replied with a resigned expression. "Just once, couldn't we go someplace and find out that everything is peachy keen?"

"What would the fun be in that?" Talia countered, though her face mirrored his.

"Fun is overrated," the other Warden grumbled. "I'd like to try being bored again for a change; I didn't appreciate it properly when I was younger."

"Kill the archdemon, and I'll let you be as bored as you like. You can sleep until noon every day."

"Noon? You promise?" Alistair sighed happily. "Maker, I haven't slept that late since – wait...I never did."

"Toads lead quite uneventful lives, I believe," Morrigan observed tartly, "and unless the two of you would like the opportunity to find out firsthand, I suggest that you enlighten the rest of us regarding what we are expected to do."

"How much do you know about werewolves?" Talia asked her.

The dark brows arched in surprise, comprehension dawning in the golden eyes beneath as they shifted toward the afflicted elves and then back to the Warden. "Lycanthropy? 'Tis a forced shapeshifting, generally the result of a curse of some sort. The change is said to be quite painful...apparently an accurate observation. Those who suffer it generally do not have the strength to fight the animal instincts of their changed form: they become savage beasts, with the ability to pass on the curse through their bite."

"The Circle has dealt with a handful of such unfortunate souls," Wynne added gravely. "The templars can delay the onset of the change, by inhibiting the magic, but unless the curse is broken, or the one who placed the curse killed, eventually they slip beyond our aid and must be killed before they pass the curse on to others. Is that what is at work here?"

Before either of the Wardens could respond, one of the low pitched groans from the infirmary area rose into an agonized scream, and the companions spun to see one of the wounded Dalish arching away from his cot, limbs rigid and face twisted into a rictus that distorted even further as his form began to change: skull elongating, claws and teeth springing into existence and thick fur covering his body. The scream twisted into a snarl as gnarled muscle replaced the lithe limbs of the elvish, but before the snarl had finished its transformation into a howl, two of the guards were upon it, faces grim as their blades slashed downward to release gouts of blood.

"I believe that would be a 'yes'." Zevran's voice sounded strained in his own ears as screams and wails of mourning rose throughout the camp.

"Merciful Maker," Leliana whispered, clinging to Talia's arm. "This will happen to all of them?"

"According to Zathrian, the curse's origins lie with a wolf called Witherfang," Talia replied with a nod of affirmation, settling into a crouch, her face pale and grim. "If we kill it and bring him its heart, he believes that he can break the curse."

"You seem doubtful, my friend," Zevran observed.

The Warden nodded. "He's not telling us everything," she said, looking to Alistair for confirmation. "According to him, this curse is centuries old, and the werewolves and Dalish have been sharing this forest all this time with only minor skirmishes; why an attack of this scale now?"

"He wasn't too clear on exactly how the curse originated, either," Alistair put in, watching as the Keeper ordered the body of the slain werewolf burned, rather than buried as was the Dalish custom.

"From what I have heard, he may well have been present when it started," Leliana offered in a low voice. "According to the Dalish, Zathrian is several centuries old; many believe that he has rediscovered the secrets of immortality, and almost everyone in the clan reveres him."

Which meant that they'd best be careful if they chose to call him on his evasions, a fact that Talia and Alistair plainly grasped.

"So, what do we do?" Zev wanted to know.

Talia shrugged. "Find this Witherfang and kill it, I suppose. The Dalish won't be able to help against the Blight unless this is taken care of."

"Does anyone else find irony in the fact that we are once again asking for aid from those who require us to rescue them?" Morrigan inquired of no one in particular.

"The Dalish have a saying, my dear witch," Zevran informed her. " _Vir Adahlen_ : together, we are stronger than the one."

"Wise words," Talia murmured, meeting Leliana's eyes briefly with a faint smile, and the Antivan found himself surprised by an unexpected wave of melancholy, one that he had dispatched by the time the Warden turned back to the rest of them. "If those treaties are to mean anything, they should be reciprocated," she said, her words echoed in Alistair's nod of agreement. "If they can't trust us to aid them, they have no reason to aid us."

"Save for the fact that an unchecked Blight will destroy them along with the rest of Ferelden," Morrigan sniffed.

"All the more reason for us to gather as many allies as we can," Talia countered, unruffled. She stood, shouldering her pack. "We're ready to go," she told Zathrian as she approached him with the rest following. "May we trade for some supplies? We're running low on rations and healing poultices."

"Varathorn will see to your needs," the Keeper replied curtly, gesturing in the direction of one of the aravels and striding away without waiting for a reply.

Talia watched him go with narrowed eyes. "No chance of other clans in the vicinity, I suppose?" she asked, glancing toward Zevran. His admittedly brief experiences with the Dalish in Antiva had nonetheless made him the most familiar of the group with the customs of the elves.

He shook his head. "Unless the clans gather, which only happens every decade or so, territories are widely spread so as not to overhunt any one area. It would likely be a few days to reach the territory of another clan, and more to locate them within it."

The Warden nodded, looking none too pleased, but not surprised. "We work with what we have, then."

* * *

"Enough!"

The form of Swiftrunner materialized from the forest mists, shadowed by several of his kin. "You must leave the forest now!" The syllables were slurred and distorted, twisted by a mouth that had never been designed for speech and throbbing with a barely suppressed rage.

"No." Talia's voice was clearer, but the anger almost as intense. For two days, they had stumbled through the forest in pursuit of werewolves that had melted away before them like illusions. That they could talk had been one surprise; their apparent reluctance to engage in combat was another. They had been attacked by werewolves, to be sure, but they were the ravening beasts that one expected when

hearing the term 'werewolf', and upon death, they reverted to their former state, which thus far had invariably been Dalish elves that bore the marks of Zathrian's clan: the newly changed, most likely. The ones who spoke, led by this Swiftrunner, had limited themselves to snarled warnings and brief, bloodless skirmishes before retreating into the mists at the heart of the forest: mists that confounded the eye and twisted the step, releasing the companions back into the forest at the exact point where they had entered.

In between werewolves and wandering the mist, they had found themselves pitted against homicidal trees, maleficar, revenants, bears, bandits and the occasional darkspawn. If the Antivan forest had been this lively, Zevran might have stayed around longer. Talia, on the other hand, was taking a far dimmer view of the challenges they had faced; while she was no longer quite so prone to hair trigger berserker rages, as her temper deteriorated, her tact suffered along with it.

"I've had enough of these games!" she snapped, glaring up at the massive creature. "We are here to kill Witherfang. Why do you protect the cause of your curse?"

Red rimmed eyes flared in fury, and two of the creatures started to lunge forward, but stopped at Swiftrunner's snarled command.

"Is that what your Dalish masters have told you?" he asked derisively. "Return, and tell them that you have failed, and that we will not rest until every one of them shares in the curse that we have suffered for far too long!"

"Why do you hate the Dalish so?" Leliana asked, trying to play the diplomat. "They have asked us only to break the curse; surely that will free you, as well?"

"You lie!" Swiftrunner roared. "Zathrian seeks only revenge!"

The slight narrowing of Talia's eyes indicated that she had not missed the familiar way that the werewolf had spoken the Keeper's name, or the wellspring of hatred behind it. "You attacked his clan, afflicted his people," she pressed deliberately. "What response would you expect from him?"

"You know nothing!" The werewolf actually seemed to be growing in his rage as his fur bristled. "If you would know the truth of this curse, ask Zathrian, but know this: you will have to kill every one of us before we allow you to reach Witherfang!"

The Warden's dark eyes sparked with frustrated anger. "If you want us to know the truth of the curse, why don't you tell us yourselves, damn it?"

"And would you believe a beast?" Swiftrunner demanded bitterly. "I warned you to leave; now learn the truth of the curse for yourselves!"

The werewolf leaped forward, and was met by Talia's charge, the sweep of her shield slamming him to the side. The mists swirled in around them, and suddenly they were surrounded, snarls and howls rising in the air. Zevran's daggers were in his hands between one heartbeat and the next; he sidestepped the charge of a dark-furred beast, one blade drawing a long, deep gash along its flank as it flew past him. It landed with uncanny agility and spun to face him, haunches bunching for another leap, then staggered to one side and fell as the poison took effect, hands clawing at the spongy loam of the forest floor and its head lolling on its neck like a rag doll. Stepping in, the elf curled his fingers into the pelt between the ears and yanked the head up, drawing a dagger across the throat in a smooth motion, then spun away in a crouch, searching for another target.

They had not had time to fall into their usual battle formation, but they had improvised nicely. Talia and Alistair were back to back, doing their damnedest to draw as much of the aggression toward themselves as possible; plate armor being the superior protection that it was, Zevran decided to forgive them their greed in this case...particularly since it opened up such prime targets. Darting in, he neatly hamstrung one of the pack, leaving it for Sten to finish.

Shale seemed to be in the process of making werewolf jelly; the golem had a habit of not being too careful about where its fists landed at such times, so the elf steered clear.

Their ranged attackers were taking advantage of the focus on the melee fighters to back out to a more advantageous range, the mages hurling spells and Leliana firing arrows with smooth precision. A flash of movement in the mist was the only warning Zevran had, and it came too late for him to even shout an alarm before three of the beasts swarmed over the witch, dragging her into the concealment of the fog in the time it took to blink.

"Morrigan!" Leliana shouted, swiveling to sweep the area where the witch had been taken, but unable to find a target. She was moving forward, Wynne close behind and Zev moving to catch up, freshening the poison on his blades with the instinctive ease of many years of practice, when Morrigan's shriek of agony cut through the fog and the sounds of battle like the sweep of a greatsword cleaving flesh and bone.

_Maker's balls!_ He would never have believed that Morrigan could make such a tortured sound, and for a long moment, the world seemed frozen, as if they were all insects trapped in amber, or as if the scream were a spell that slowed time, leaving him free to observe with an odd sense of detachment.

He watched Leliana pluck an arrow from her quiver, saw the notch in one of the fletchings that would need repair.

He saw Sten pushing a corpse off of Asala with a booted foot, saw the drops of blood that hung in the qunari's white braids like beads.

He saw Brego shake his head savagely, blood, fur and torn flesh flying from between his teeth as he shredded the throat of his opponent, saw the great head lift, lips skinning back from bloodstained teeth in a snarl.

He saw Talia and Alistair turn their heads, saw the shock and horror etched onto their faces.

He saw Swiftfang's tawny form rear up; the red-rimmed eyes met those of the elf for a moment, and Zevran saw regret and a helpless rage.

The scream came again, high and filled with fear, and the spell shattered like dropped crystal.

_"Morrigan!"_ Talia cut down another of the werewolves in a spray of blood, her blazing eyes locked on Swiftfang, but the pack leader backed away, lifting his muzzle with a keening howl, and as one, the rest of the werewolves broke off their attacks and raced away, lost to sight almost immediately in the mist. Seconds later, the mist itself receded, revealing an empty forest cast in the shadows of late afternoon, and -

"Morrigan!"

Wynne reached the witch first, Talia close behind, with Alistair and Leliana bringing up the rear. Sten stayed where he was, his face grim and his eyes searching the trees.

"Brego, patrol!" The mabari sprang away at Talia's command, starting a broad circle around the perimeter.

"Does the swamp witch live?" Shale inquired curiously, taking an earthshaking step forward, blood and fur caked on the massive stone fists.

"Barely," Wynne replied tersely, her hands already aglow with magic. Zevran made no attempt to get closer; he had seen the exposed loops of gut where one of the witch's attackers had savaged her belly, seen the cruel bites along one shoulder and arm, the torn flesh of a thigh. He could offer no help in this; he would be of greatest use in joining the qunari to guard against another attack. Werewolves were far from the only danger in this place.

He could hear Morrigan's labored breathing, an almost mindless moan of pain escaping with each exhalation. "Hang on, Morrigan," Talia urged her softly. "Wynne's going to heal you."

The mage's voice was as calm and steady as ever as she wove the words of the spell; only the taut lines of her face gave any indication of the strain as she continued to cast spell after spell, the cadence and inflection of the words altering subtly as she proceeded, until she fell silent, sagging with weariness.

Zevran glanced toward them again; the wounds seemed smaller, and the bleeding had stopped, but -

"I have stabilized her," Wynne said heavily, "but I can do no more." She lifted her head, her clear blue eyes grave.

"She has been infected by the curse."


	34. The Truth of the Curse

"You must be mistaken."

Talia stared at Zathrian as though he'd suddenly switched from the Common tongue into Dalish. "Mistaken?" she repeated incredulously. "You think we just imagined those werewolves speaking to us?"

"There are birds that can speak," the Keeper responded calmly. "Mimicking words that they have heard. That does not make them intelligent."

"They weren't just repeating words, Zathrian." She was exhibiting remarkable patience, but Alistair could tell it was wearing thin: her hands were curled into fists and her words were clipped and terse. Leliana could see it too; she stayed close to Talia's side, blue eyes shifting between her face and that of the elf, ready to intervene. "They spoke. They hate your people with a passion, and you in particular; why?"

"They are beasts!" the elf said with a dismissive shake of his head. "Savage and mindless. Who can know why they do anything?"

"They said that you would know the truth of the curse," Talia pressed him.

"And I have told you that the root of the curse lies with Witherfang!" Zathrian exploded. "You are wasting time by continuing to harass me; time that none of us can afford!"

As he stalked away, Talia turned, her eyes flashing with anger as they met Alistair's gaze. She hadn't missed the fact that he had sidestepped every question she'd asked, and she just as plainly knew that she couldn't beat the answers she wanted out of him. Doing so would likely turn the whole camp against them, and they needed the Dalish for more than just the Blight now.

Morrigan groaned, the sound low and twisted with pain, and Alistair turned, feeling the magic of the curse beginning to surge within her once more, trying to force its changes onto her body. Laying a hand on her fevered brow, he closed his eyes and released the wave of cleansing magic, as Wynne had shown him. The tension left the witch's limbs, and her body sagged back onto the cot, her skin damp with sweat and traces of blood seeping through the bandages that had been placed over the wounds that refused to heal.

If the Revered Mother could see him now, he thought with a grim sort of humor. Traveling among the heathen Dalish, using his Maker-given gifts to keep an apostate from becoming a werewolf. The old bat would likely have a full blown apoplectic fit; maybe he should send her a letter when this was all over...

"How is she?" Talia crouched beside the cot, staring worriedly down at Morrigan.

"The same," he reported somberly. Templar magic could hold back the effects of the curse, but not reverse it, and each time it surged forward, it claimed a bit more ground. Eventually, according to Wynne, the scales would tip, and the change would occur despite his attempts.

The witch's eyes fluttered open at the sound of their voices: bright and almost unseeing with pain.

"Kill me," she rasped weakly.

"No." Talia shook her head, her face set into stubborn lines. Zathrian had recommended the same when they had first brought her into camp; the witch's wounds were more grievous than any that the Dalish had received, and evidently that influenced the speed at which the curse progressed. Alistair had thought that Talia was going to skewer the Keeper on the spot. "Not going to do it."

One hand reached out to clutch at Talia's wrist. "If you truly consider yourself my friend, you will not leave me to this fate!" she hissed. "Please!" The last word was wrenched out amidst another groan of pain, the golden eyes bright with fear now.

Talia caught the hand, holding it in both her own. "I _am_ your friend," she told Morrigan firmly. "We're going back after Witherfang, but if -" She broke off, jaw clenching briefly before she continued. "If it comes to that, Alistair will do it."

_Me?_ The word almost escaped him, but he bit it back just in time. Part of him had realized that he would have to remain in the elvish camp with Morrigan, to keep the curse at bay, but he hadn't yet followed that line of thought to its inevitable conclusion: there was a chance that they wouldn't manage to end the curse in time – or at all – leaving him standing guard over a werewolf that hated his guts.

The eyes were on him now. "Swear it!" No insults, no snide commentary, and that more than anything brought home how terrified she must be.

"I swear it," he replied simply, touching the hilt of Duncan's dagger. "I'll give you mercy if there's no other way." He almost hoped for a sarcastic response, but she just nodded wearily, her eyes drifting closed once more, her face pale and still.

Alistair rose and followed Talia and the others away from the infirmary, away from the ears of the Dalish, to the edge of camp, though Talia was careful to keep them where they did not lose sight of Morrigan.

"You have to stay," she told him, her face drawn with worry and guilt.

"I know," he told her gently. He'd made use of the skills he'd learned as a templar initiate before, but this was the first time that he was truly thankful that Duncan had encouraged him to maintain and build on those skills. He was no fonder of Morrigan than he'd ever been, but nobody deserved this.

Except maybe Loghain. And Rendon Howe. But nobody else.

"If we don't...make it back in time, you'll have to -" She broke off, her eyes dropping, hand curled around Starfang's hilt in a white-knuckled grip. Leliana slipped an arm around her waist, resting her head against the warrior's shoulder and brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face. Talia closed her eyes and tilted her head into the touch, the tension in her shoulders relaxing ever so slightly.

"I know," he repeated, laying a hand on her shoulder and waiting until she opened her eyes and met his gaze. "This is not your fault." They'd already discussed their tactical error in letting the group get separated in a fight where they couldn't see what direction the next attack was coming from, but they both suspected that the result would have been the same regardless of the tactics they had used: nobody else had received so much as a scratch in the fight. The attack on Morrigan had been a deliberate act, intended to do exactly what it had done. The 'why' of it remained a mystery, however, since all it had done was give them an even greater motivation to track down and kill Witherfang.

"Maybe not," Talia replied somberly, "but it's my responsibility."

" _Our_ responsibility," he corrected her. She still led, but since Haven, he'd been making a conscious effort to shoulder the heavier burdens alongside her, offering his opinions rather than passively allowing her to make all the decisions, and then supporting her actively once a decision had been made.

She nodded, quirking a smile at him and covering his hand on her shoulder with her own briefly. "Shale, I want you to stay here, too."

"I'm not to assist in squishing the wolf-men? Pity. Do try to hurry, though. I cannot wait to be out from beneath these blasted trees and the birds that lurk within them."

"We will," Talia promised, her eyes holding Alistair's, understanding passing between them as clearly as if words had been spoken. The golem was impervious to the Dalish arrows and blades, and resistant to magic; the balance between them and their would-be allies was a precarious one, and Zathrian's hostility, Morrigan's condition, could be the toppling weights. If it came to fighting their way out of camp, he would be encumbered with Morrigan, leaving the bulk of the combat to Shale and -

"Brego." The mabari gave a whine of protest, and Talia dropped to one knee in front of him, scratching his ears. "It has to be this way, boy. I need you to protect them while I'm gone, and," she caught the burly head in her hands, looking into the deepset eyes, "I need you to obey Alistair the same way you would obey me, understood?"

The dog sat back, head cocked as he regarded the other Warden thoughtfully. His eyes shifted back to his mistress, then again to Alistair. Back to Talia, back to Alistair...then he flopped onto his side with a mournful groan.

"Hey!" At Alistair's protest, the hound rolled to his feet, tongue lolling from his mouth in a doggy grin, making a chuffing noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter as he gave him an affectionate head butt that nearly knocked him over.

"Smartass mutt," Talia murmured, smiling fondly at the dog. "And watch which trees you piss on -"

A rising scream from the infirmary deepened into an ululating howl, and Alistair's heart froze in his chest. _Morrigan? Maker, I only took my eyes off of her for a few moments!_

It was not the witch, however, but another of the Dalish whose body convulsed and began to contort, and the onlooking guards moved swiftly to end the threat.

"We've got to get moving." Talia's face was grim once more, the moment of levity past. "Leliana, get some more arrows from Varathorn. Everyone else, leave everything but food, water and weapons."

"Warden." Talia turned as Lanaya approached, her expression troubled. "Have you any way to reach the heart of the forest through the mists?"

"Not yet," Talia replied tersely. That remained the weakness in their plan.

The elf bit her lip, glancing anxiously in Zathrian's direction, then went on in a low voice. "You have encountered the wild sylvans, but there is another, the Grand Oak, who is...different. The spirit that resides within the tree is very old and has ties to the forest that surpass even our own. If you approach him respectfully, he may agree to help you. I will mark the location of his glade on your map."

"And why am I not hearing this from your Keeper?" Talia growled, her voice vibrating with anger, though she matched her tone to Lanaya's.

The elf shook her head helplessly. "Zathrian is...not himself. His actions are endangering our clan, even though many do not realize it yet." Her brown eyes cut to Alistair. "Will you use your magic to slow the curse in our people, as well as your friend?"

"Your Keeper has forbidden it," he reminded her; Zathrian's scathing dismissal of 'shemlen spells' had come only a couple of hours earlier.

"I will intervene with Zathrian." Lanaya's face was resolute but filled with a sorrowful dread. "I cannot allow him to put our people at such risk. If I must, I will force a council of our elders and replace him. I - I never thought it would come to this."

"Seems to be going around these days," Talia muttered, her eyes hard. "And Alistair is one man; he can't -"

"I'll do what I can," he said quickly. Their eyes met in a brief clash of wills, and she nodded slowly, not needing to tell him that keeping Morrigan alive came first.

"Be careful," she told him as Lanaya moved away. "If it comes down to a showdown between her and the Keeper, the clan may well side with Zathrian. If they do, take Morrigan and get out. Wait for us in the Tevinter ruins where we killed those trolls; it's a defensible position."

He nodded. "Hopefully, slowing the curse's progression in the elves will buy us some goodwill. That's worth a bit of effort, isn't it?"

* * *

Thirty-six nearly sleepless hours later, he was not nearly so sure of that. Lanaya had convinced Zathrian to allow him to use templar magic on the afflicted elves, but with over a dozen remaining, along with Morrigan, he barely had the time to sit long enough to let his energies renew, let alone catch a nap. He'd finally managed to get the cots arranged so that the cleansing aura could affect three or four at once, and by pushing himself to his utter limits, could take care of them all in a single pass, leaving him an hour or so to collapse and sit in a daze until the effects wore off and he had to do it again.

Two more had succumbed to the curse since Talia and the others had left, and even though that was less than a quarter of the number that had been lost in the two days prior to that, there were still discontented grumblings and suspicious glances cast at him as each body was carried away to be burned, grumblings that were kept at a distance only by Shale's silent but looming presence and the well behaved but undeniably large mabari that was constantly at his side.

"You are a fool," Morrigan muttered weakly as he sank to the ground beside her cot after another round of casting. She drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes screaming in pain as the curse tore at her, other times lying with gritted teeth and blazing eyes as though defying it. Between her will and his magic, she had proven Zathrian's prediction wrong and was faring better than most of the infected elves...which the Keeper took as an additional reason to look upon them with suspicion.

"So you've said." In her more coherent moments, she was back to insulting him, but her words lacked their usual bite, and when the waves of pain gripped her, she clung to his hand like a lifeline. He suspected that he would be paying for being a witness to her weakness if she survived, but he was too exhausted to think that far ahead most of the time; he simply responded to her halfhearted barbs with weary quips, gave comfort when she sought it, solitude when she demanded it and saved his strongest efforts for her.

He was going to have to choose soon, though; exhaustion was taking its toll, and he was finding the reserves that he drew on growing smaller and smaller. He wouldn't be able to take care of them all, unless...

"And I will continue to do so as long as you act the fool," she replied. "You've lost a full stone of weight drawing upon yourself when the lyrium in my pack would -"

"No." He shook his head emphatically, then swayed as the world tipped back and forth briefly. "No lyrium." They'd been having this particular argument for most of the last day.

"You are moving beyond a mere fool then," the witch snapped in exasperation, spots of color flaring briefly through her pallor. "If you are going to insist upon risking the lives for which you have assumed responsibility for the sake of pride, would you at least offer me the courtesy of explaining _why_ before you fall dead from overextending yourself?"

"Amazing." He leaned wearily back against her cot. "Half dead and you're still a bitch."

"Better a live bitch than a dead fool," she replied, "though I suspect we will both be dead in a few hours at the rate you are deteriorating." She gave a sharp gasp, her hand groping out instinctively, his hand rising to take it just as instinctively, gritting his teeth as her convulsive grip ground the small bones together. After several long moments, the episode passed and she pulled her hand away.

He stared at his own hand, noting how clearly the bones stood out against flesh that was nearly translucent, how he couldn't hold it steady. She was right; he was going to kill them both. "It's not pride," he muttered, staring at the ground. "At the Chantry, when I was training to become a templar, they gave us lyrium to augment our magic."

"You've been taught how to use it?" she demanded. "Then why, if your sacred Chantry permits its use -"

"They don't 'permit' the use of lyrium by templars," he said flatly, lifting his eyes to hers. "They _require_ it. They get them addicted to it, and since the Chantry controls the lyrium trade -"

"Then the Chantry controls the templars," she finished for him, her golden eyes unreadable. "Were you addicted?"

"No. I was still early in my training when Duncan recruited me, but I remember how lyrium seemed to make it so easy - and good. It felt like...like..."

"Sex?" the witch suggested with a smirk that turned into a wince. She peered beneath the bandages layered over the wound in her abdomen and grimaced. The injuries inflicted by the werewolves didn't become infected or putrefy, but they didn't heal correctly, either; the bandages were kept damp to prevent the exposed loops of intestine from drying out.

"Like I'd know?" He was too damn tired to get defensive, and if needling him took her mind off of the pain, well, he ought to be used to it by now. "I've never licked a lamppost in winter, remember?"

"What?" Her brow furrowed in bafflement. "If that is how the Chantry tells you that babies are made -"

"Oh, right. You weren't there for that conversation." Hard to think back that far. Hard to think at all, really. "Never mind. I know how babies are made: something about cabbages and storks, right?" He gave her a smirk of his own as she rolled her eyes. "Anyway, the point is, I _liked_ using the lyrium...right up until the point that they made us watch a templar who was forcibly withdrawn from it as punishment for becoming involved with a mage...an apostate that he had helped to stay hidden. I can still hear his screams. When they were done with him, he wielded the blade that executed his lover...and handed their infant son over to the Chantry to be raised. His eyes were dead...empty." Why couldn't those memories be as muddled as the rest of his thoughts?

"After that, I started taking the lyrium in smaller and smaller doses, dumping out the rest when my instructors weren't looking. I tried to make it look like I was just having trouble with the spells, but I think they were starting to catch on when Duncan arrived."

"You? Defying authority?" Morrigan seemed almost amused at the notion, but there was a thoughtful appraisal in her gaze, as well. "I would never have guessed it of you."

"Yeah, I'm just full of surprises," he replied dryly, pushing himself to his feet. "Now, where's your pack at?"

"Beneath the tree to my right," the witch replied, watching as he wove his way toward it, the mabari shadowing him worriedly, as though afraid he might fall...which he did.

"Thanks," he muttered, accepting the wet tongue on his cheek as he used Brego's bulk to steady himself until he was on his feet again.

"The lyrium is in the outer pocket on the left," Morrigan informed him. Reaching inside, his fingers curled around the cool metal vials, drawing two forth and staring at them as though he could see the faintly glowing blue liquid within. Before the memories could make him hesitate again, he broke the wax seal on the stopper and tipped the contents of one into his mouth, the cool liquid flowing down his throat almost of its own volition.

_Maker, I'd almost forgotten._ He'd tried hard to forget, because it felt so damn _good_. His body felt energized, his mind suddenly alert, and power surged through his veins, itching to be released. He remembered all too well now, how it had felt when he was weaning himself off of the stuff: the aches, the weariness, the way his mind had seemed immersed in wool, the colors of the world gone dull, and above all, the temptation to let himself have just a little bit more...the way he'd tried to rationalize it. _A little more couldn't hurt, it'll keep me a bit sharper, keep them from getting suspicious. Just a little more...please?_

He'd made himself ignore that wheedling voice then, and he shut the door on it hurriedly now, tucking the second vial into his belt pouch and leaving the others where they were. Turning, he strode purposefully back among the cots, releasing the spells, feeling the magic flowing as effortlessly as quicksilver, pushing back the rising tide of the curse.

_I should have done this before now; why was I fighting it so hard?_ It almost sounded like the voice of reason; he could almost not hear the wheedling undertone, the keenly anticipating calculation of when he could justify consuming the second vial -

The elf nearest him, a young woman with cruel gashes on her neck and face stiffened suddenly, her voice rising in that now familiar scream, and he retreated, leaving the Dalish to deal with their own. Crouching beside Morrigan's cot, he pushed out with the last of his energies, feeling the taint of the curse rising up from her as clearly as if it were the scent of rot and using the added power that the lyrium gave him to smother it, drive it back deep inside...but he could still feel that he had not pushed it as far back this time as he had the time before.

_You've got the lyrium,_ the voice whispered. _You can use it; nobody's forcing you to now, you can handle it._

_Shut up._

Morrigan watched him thoughtfully, her color noticeably better than it had been. "It made a difference," she offered cautiously. "The elf was simply too far gone; there was nothing to be done for her."

He blinked. "Did my ears deceive me, or were you actually offering me encouragement?"

"Simply stating the truth," she sniffed. "As galling as the thought may be, you are currently all that stands between me and death, or a worse fate, and though I know that you are simply acting at Talia's behest, I am...grateful."

He blinked again, staring at her stupidly. "I'm going to pay for that later, aren't I?" he blurted before his mind could put a lock on his mouth.

She laughed: not the scornful laugh that she usually responded to him with, but a weary shadow of the rare, rich laugh that escaped her when she was genuinely amused. "You have no idea, Alistair. You really don't."

Before he could ask her what that meant, Zathrian was striding toward them with his usual scowl and Lanaya trailing in his wake with her usual anxious expression. He didn't envy the girl; it had quickly become obvious that any attempt by her to usurp the legendary Keeper would be met with resistance from the elders, so she had been forced to fall back on persuasion and pleading with a man who appeared to have fewer and fewer cards in his deck each day.

"Another of our clan has fallen to the curse, Warden," Zathrian announced loudly. "Is this the protection that you offer us as allies?"

"Fewer of your kind have succumbed to this curse since the Templar began his protection, elf," Shale observed dispassionately, managing to loom without moving an inch.

"And yet the shem witch still lives, though from her wounds, she should have been among the first to be taken," the Keeper sneered, glaring at Morrigan. "Perhaps if you had expended as much of your effort protecting our people as your own, more might have been saved."

A reflexive guilt swept through him, because wasn't that more or less what he had been doing? Morrigan, however, lifted her head, her piercing gaze fixed upon Zathrian.

"Why, I wonder, do you expend so much of your own energy trying to blame us for the effects of a curse that was here before we ever arrived?" she queried him, her voice carrying as clearly as his, though it plainly cost her no small effort. "A curse that, in fact, predates everyone in your clan, save yourself?" Others of the clan had begun to gather, keeping a wary distance from the infirmary. The witch's eyes widened in sudden surprise, then narrowed, one hand going to her chest as she pushed herself up on an elbow, sweat breaking out on her forehead. "A curse that _you_ created, Zathrian."

"What?" Lanaya gasped as a startled murmur ran through the onlookers. "Zathrian, is this true?"

"Why would you listen to this shemlen?" he demanded angrily. "Have I not guided and protected this clan all these years?"

"And yet, he does not deny it," Morrigan observed. "I can feel it, now that my mind is clearer. This Witherfang is the anchor, keeping those affected by the curse alive and able to pass it on, but the curse itself flows back to you and your hate." Her eyes shifted to Lanaya. "Delve into the minds of your clansmen who are afflicted and you will find it for yourself. He has not allowed any but himself to examine them closely, am I right?"

The Keeper's First nodded slowly, her stricken eyes pleading with Zathrian to deny it, explain, but he only glared at Morrigan, hand curled tight around his staff.

"Talia will likely figure it out for herself, if she hasn't already," the witch went on calmly. "She has never been fond of people who seek to manipulate her to their own ends. I would not be surprised if she reaches some sort of accommodation with the werewolves, if they are as intelligent as they seem to be. It seems to me that they would be powerful allies against the darkspawn, if our current allies cannot be trusted."

The staff began to glow, and Alistair tensed, reaching into himself for the energies that would absorb whatever spell was cast. Shale took a single step forward, the shimmer of the crystals embedded in the stone brightening in a threat as obvious as it was unspoken, and Brego dropped into a crouch, eyes locked on the Keeper and lips skinning back from his teeth in a low snarl.

Zathrian looked around, but none of his clan seemed ready to aid him, their eyes by turns puzzled, questioning or accusing. He turned to Lanaya, but the First stepped away, her expression reproachful.

"What have you done, Zathrian?"

"What I had to do!" he snapped harshly, the glow fading from his staff as he turned and stalked from the camp.

Alistair let out a breath that he didn't remember holding. "That was...interesting," he murmured, turning to Morrigan as her words filtered past the state of battle readiness. "But if Witherfang is the anchor like you said, doesn't that mean...?" He trailed off, staring at her. _She can't possibly be saying -_

"It does." She nodded, sagging back to the cot in sudden exhaustion, but seeming remarkably undistressed, given the circumstances. "Should Talia and the others succeed in killing Witherfang, all those affected by the curse will die...including the elves here and myself."


	35. The Cousland Way

"Trap," Leliana breathed, pausing at the threshold of the room. "Right ahead."

Behind her, the rest of the group froze. The ancient Elven tombs in which the werewolves had made their lair was riddled with traps both old and new; she and Zevran had been taking turns on point. The elf eased up beside her now, his green eyes sweeping the room, a faint hiss drawing her attention to the right, where she spotted another pressure plate, almost hidden beneath the dirt and strewn leaves that littered the large chamber. A third trap, a fourth, and then one that had been sprung beneath a corpse that had long since been reduced to dried bone and rusty armor.

She couldn't tell from the condition of the body what the nature of the trap had been; they had encountered jets of flame, poisoned darts that launched from barely visible holes in the walls and blades that sliced through the air like scythes. Whoever had designed these defenses had been fond of variety.

Now, she and Zevran should move forward, one attempting to disarm the traps while the other remained poised to pull the first from harm's way, should a trap be inadvertently triggered. Instead, she found herself hesitating, studying the room, trying to identify the reason for the faint stirrings of alarm creeping up her spine.

Like much of the tombs, the once magnificent stonework had fallen to ruin; columns and statues had toppled, and a large section of the wall and ceiling had collapsed entirely, sunlight filtering in faintly from far above. The debris obscured the view of the rear of the chamber, but the piles of leaves were too large to have simply drifted in through the hole, and there was a smell in the air: dry and pungent and feral.

"A den," Zevran murmured beside her. Looking at him, she nodded grimly, glancing back to be sure the others had heard.

Talia nodded and stepped up until she was directly behind the two rogues, surveying the room with a wary scowl. "A den of what?" she wondered. "Not the werewolves." She was right; the werewolves left a distinctive, musky odor wherever they lingered that was not present here.

"Only one way to find out," Zevran replied almost cheerfully. Talia looked torn between irritation and amusement, finally settling on the latter with a faint snort.

"Just be careful," she warned them, fading back a step and bringing her sword and shield up to a ready position.

"So glad she's there to remind us of that," the elf joked as they edged forward. "I'm always forgetting." Leliana would have laughed if she had not been narrowing her focus down to the pressure plate before her and the mechanism beneath. Though he seemed carefree to the casual observer, the Antivan wore caution like a second skin, and the fact that Talia trusted him with the bard's back in this made it plain that she knew it. The warrior had tried to learn the intricacies of traps from both of them, and actually did fairly well in camp, but the bulk of her armor hampered the deft movements that such activities required.

Working quickly but carefully, Leliana wedged small strips of metal around the edges of the plate, preventing it from being depressed onto the triggering mechanism. It would have been simple enough to go around them, but the possibility of battle was ever present, and in such a situation, it would be all too easy to stumble back over them. It was much safer, if a bit slower, to remove each threat as it was encountered.

She finished the first and shifted sideways to the next one. These were plainly part of the original architecture, the stone tiles matching the others on the floor and all but indistinguishable save for the faintest elevation above the level of their mates. Amazing that they remained functional after all this time...

"Leliana," Zevran's voice was little more than a breath and utterly toneless, "do not move."

Her hands froze in the act of wedging the plate, and now she heard what her concentration on her task had blocked out before: the whisper of scales sliding over stone. Without lifting her head, she raised her eyes and saw the shape rising from behind the concealment of the fallen stone and earth: large and sinuous and terrifyingly familiar.

_The giant head twisted toward her, her arrows still jutting from its blinded eye as it sought the source of its maiming._

From behind her, she heard Talia's sharply drawn breath as the dragon moved forward: much smaller than the monster they had taken on at Haven, but faster and no less deadly. Golden, slitted eyes pinned the two intruders, and the jaw dropped open, revealing wicked fangs.

_She tried to dodge, but the strike flew as swiftly as had her arrows, and the massive jaws closed around her: crushing pressure, then blinding pain, and then -_

She was frozen, caught in the grip of memories she'd blocked away, when Zevran hit her, sending her sprawling to the side onto the trap she had just disabled as a gout of flame burst from the dragon's maw, engulfing the elf.

_With each shake of its head, the dragon's teeth sank deeper: skin and muscle shredding, bone splintering. She tried to scream, but blood filled her lungs, and then there was the sensation of flying through the air, and her last thought was a prayer for quick death, for an end to the pain._

Zevran's screams broke her paralysis, but Talia was already there, pulling her to her feet and shoving her toward the door.

"Sten, get Zevran!" The qunari swept the elf up with one arm like a rag doll, suffocating the flames against his armor while wielding Asala in his free hand. Talia stepped in front of him as the dragon loosed another fiery breath, and Leliana's heart stopped, but the enchantments that Sandal had worked into her shield were potent: the flames hit the surface and were deflected back and to either side.

Wynne's voice rose, magic thrummed in the air, and the dragon's movements became suddenly stiff and sluggish, though the eyes remained alert and bright with fury.

"Back!" Talia shouted, her eyes never leaving their attacker as she retreated toward the door, keeping herself and her shield between the rest of them and the dragon. "Up the stairs and around the corner!"

Sten moved without hesitation, but Leliana waited at the threshold, making certain that the Warden was going to follow her own orders. Their eyes met as Talia turned, the warrior acknowledging her worry with a nod, then motioning for her to keep moving.

"How long?" Talia asked as they rounded the corner. Petrification spells were generally not of lengthy duration, and the stronger the target, the shorter the time.

"A few seconds, no more," Wynne replied, kneeling beside Zevran as Sten lowered him to the floor well back in the corridor. The elf seemed barely conscious, the skin on one side of his body blackened and cracking, already weeping a clear fluid. Leliana swallowed hard, fighting her rising gorge as the scent of seared flesh reached her.

"Get him stabilized and then do what you can." Talia's voice was clipped and terse, her eyes locked in the direction from which the dragon would inevitably come. "Let it get to the top of the landing; it won't be able to move freely. I'll keep its attention. Sten, flank it and Leliana, use the ice arrows."

She didn't look around, never questioning that they would follow her orders. She was back where she preferred to be: the one taking the greatest risks, but her plan was not a reckless one. Much of the coin they had acquired in their travels had gone into the enchantments to enhance their equipment, and the runes that Bodahn's simple but talented son had worked into Talia and Alistair's armor and shields had given them the ability to withstand the greatest amount of punishment, both magical and physical.

That knowledge didn't stop panic from tightening the bard's throat as the serpentine neck of the dragon appeared at the top of the stairs, the bulk of its body fast behind. As Talia had predicted, the confines of the corridor kept it from spreading its wings, depriving it of formidable buffeting weapons and hampering its movement. Talia moved forward, slamming the pommel of her sword into her shield in a noise designed to draw attention to herself. The triangular head, easily as large as Talia's torso, darted forward, but the Warden deflected the strike with a sweeping blow from her shield, Starfang lashing out to open a deep cut along the throat.

Panic faded before the imperative of necessity; Leliana's left hand settled into the grip of her bow, her right reached back to pluck an arrow from her quiver, practiced fingers easily finding the fletching that marked those that she sought. She set arrow to string and drew back, drawing breath along with the movement, paused long enough to sight along the line of the shaft and released between one heartbeat and the next, exhaling as she did so. The missile flew true, burying itself deep in a shoulder, the discoloration spreading from the point of impact marking the freezing of the surrounding tissue, the effects doubly painful to a creature of fire.

The dragon screeched as the wounded limb wavered, but Talia gave it no chance to turn its attention elsewhere, pressing close, shield deflecting the sudden rush of flame, then slipping aside to allow her sword to stab deeply into the foreleg that the arrow had struck. The leg buckled, and the dragon made a clumsy lunge, wings batting at the walls of the corridor uselessly. Talia slid along the wall, forcing it to turn with her to meet the sudden flurry of blows she unleashed...and baring its side to Sten.

A second arrow was already in the air and a third drawn as the qunari stepped in with a roar, bringing Asala down in a mighty overhead sweep that cleaved through the near wing and bit deep into the spine, just behind the ribcage. Flame blackened the ceiling of the corridor as the dragon bellowed in pain and rage, arrows in its neck and flank adding to the damage, and a head-sized stone conjured from somewhere behind Leliana striking it in the ribs, sending it staggering to the side.

Talia moved with it, crouching low beneath her shield, then uncoiling suddenly with an upward thrust that plunged Starfang through the floor of the beast's mouth as the head came down, driving it through the skull completely, then wrenching it free in a spray of blood, bone and brain. She stepped away, narrowly avoiding being pinned beneath the creature's collapsing bulk. The wings gave a final, fitful shudder, the tail lashed once, and then the dragon lay motionless.

"Anyone else hurt?" Her piercing gaze shifted to each of them in turn. "Sten?"

"It is nothing," the qunari said stoically as she peered at the blistered skin on his face and neck.

"Maybe so," Talia replied, "but it's still getting a poultice." Her eyes met Leliana's as she turned, confirming again that the bard was unharmed, and then she was crouching beside the prone form of the elf. "How is he?"

"Better than it could have been," Wynne replied. "Sten put the flames out before they could burn too deeply, and his armor gave him some protection." Laying her hands on Zevran's forehead and chest, the mage began casting her spells. Bit by bit, the blackened and blistered skin healed, even the scorched hair regrowing, though it did not quite match the length of that on the other side of his head.

The elf stirred, groaning softly, and his green eyes slid open, the look in them dazed and uncomprehending. "Rinna?" he mumbled, his voice disbelieving but hopeful as his unsteady gaze fell on Talia. "You waited for me?"

"It's Talia, Zev," the Warden corrected him, giving Leliana a puzzled glance. "The dragon, remember? You got burned, but Wynne healed you." He shook his head slowly, his eyes coming into focus, recognizing Talia for who she was.

"I survived?" Perhaps only Leliana caught the brief flicker of disappointment across his features before they settled into a mien of sardonic bemusement. "Astonishing."

"I'm a little surprised myself," Talia admitted. "You're going to give assassins a bad name if you keep up with these selfless acts, my friend."

He chuckled. "They only seem selfless; after all, protecting what is most valued by the one I am sworn to serve is only prudent, no?" He pushed himself into a sitting position, rolling his head on his neck with an appreciative groan. "Ah, my dear Wynne, I am in your debt. I hope you will allow me to show my gratitude in a suitably shameless and erotic fashion."

"He's fine," the mage pronounced wryly, pushing herself to her feet and moving to tend to Sten.

The elf watched her go with a theatrically woebegone expression that became more genuine as he glanced down at the charred remains of his armor. "Somehow, I doubt that a bit of oil will remedy this," he muttered as a piece cracked and fell away under his probing finger.

"We've picked up some pieces along the way," Talia observed. "They won't match, but they'll keep your ass covered until we can get it replaced."

"It will have to do," the elf sighed, his face brightening as he looked down. "At least it missed my boots." He accepted Talia's hand up, then swayed, kept from falling only by the Warden's intervention, Leliana stepping in to support his other side.

"Perhaps I did not survive after all," he mused, glancing from one woman to the other with a sly grin. "This must surely be heaven. Anyone for an Antivan sandwich?"

"You are incorrigible," Leliana said with a laugh in spite of herself, "but thank you." She placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. Talia eyed her quizzically, then winked as she mirrored the bard's action on his opposite cheek.

The elf's smile grew wider. "From such scraps, my dreams can prepare a feast to make a king weep with envy!"

"As long as you spare us the details," Talia murmured, her eyes going from the elf to Wynne, who was clearly drained by the healing, then last to Leliana, plainly seeing the shadows that the bard was still too shaken to hide. "I think we need to stop and rest for a few hours."

* * *

"You should be sleeping."

Wynne glanced up at Talia as the Warden approached from the far side of the chamber. Resting in the dragon's lair had been a sound tactical decision: few things would be likely to even approach the area, while the dry, reptilian smell still hung heavy in the air. They had cleared a wide area of leaves and the remains of earlier meals and built a small fire, the tunnel to the surface providing an effective chimney.

"I was," she replied, "and I will be again. At my age, you seldom sleep through the night, and I wanted to check on Zevran." She crouched beside the elf, and the fact that he didn't immediately wake was proof that he had indeed needed the rest. His breathing was steady and even, however, and his color was good; the gently probing tendril of magic that she sent out told the rest. "He should be fine when he wakes."

"Good." Talia settled carefully to the ground close to where Leliana lay in a fitful sleep, leaning back against a slab of fallen stone, dark eyes watching the mage. "And you?"

"I'll be just fine," the mage promised with a smile, but the appraising gaze didn't waver.

"You're sure?" she pressed carefully. "You put a lot into keeping Morrigan alive. I should have left you with the Dalish to recover, but -" She glanced around them with an expressive shrug.

"You're assuming I would have let you," Wynne replied, rising from Zevran's side and returning to her own bedroll, taking a drink from her waterskin. "You may be our leader, but that doesn't mean that I'll let you make bad decisions."

"I'm counting on that," Talia told her, her expression serious and suddenly uncertain. "Did I do the right thing? Splitting us up like this, I mean."

"You did the only thing that you could do," Wynne assured her. "Alistair is the only one with the ability to slow the onset of the curse, and you are right not to trust Zathrian. That one has motives of his own that go beyond the defense of his clan. Leaving the others as protection was a wise decision, though I hope it will prove unnecessary."

"I miss them," Talia admitted softly. "I haven't been apart from Brego for so much as a day since Papa gave him to me, and the camp doesn't feel right without Alistair and Morrigan arguing." She gave Wynne an apologetic look. "I know you don't like her -"

"I don't trust her," Wynne said simply. "She has reasons of her own for being with us, but you know that as well as I do. I feel sorry for her at times. Being raised by Flemeth cannot have been a pleasant childhood, and I can see something in her eyes sometimes, when she watches you with Alistair or Leliana."

"Watches me?" Worry flickered across the Warden's face. "You don't think that she -" She left the question dangling awkwardly.

"Nothing like that," Wynne replied, "but she has never known something as simple and vital as friendship, and I think that a part of her yearns for it, even as the rest of her is convinced that it is a weakness that she should fear. Regardless, however, she will not let such things keep her from whatever her ultimate purpose is. Never forget that, because while I do not think that she means you ill, her goals have little to do with ending the Blight."

"I know," Talia said, and seemed on the verge of saying more when Leliana whimpered in her sleep, curling in on herself beneath the light blanket. The Warden immediately reached out, stroking the red hair with a gentle hand, murmuring reassurances, and the bard slowly relaxed, settling back into a more peaceful slumber.

"She remembered," Talia said quietly, her fingers still trailing through Leliana's hair. "About the other dragon...what it did to her. Seeing this dragon brought it back."

"That's understandable. It did the same for you, did it not?" The bard had seemed unusually shaken in the aftermath of the fight, and she and Talia had spent a fair amount of time talking, arms around each other and heads close together, before she had settled sufficiently to sleep.

Talia nodded. "I never forget it," she said somberly, "but today...if it hadn't been for Zev..." She trailed off, her gaze shifting from Leliana to the elf. "I don't understand him."

"Because he offers his life up so freely while guarding his secrets?" When the Warden nodded, Wynne continued. "It is not so hard to comprehend when you consider that life was cheaply held in the world where he was raised, and that the only things that he could truly call his own, that no one could ever take from him, were his thoughts. When he offers those up freely, you will know that you have truly earned his trust."

"That makes sense, I guess," Talia agreed, "but he's earned my trust several times over by now." Her eyes returned to Leliana. "If anything happens to her -"

"Then you will go on," Wynne told her with deliberate calm. The Warden's eyes lifted to her, flashing with anger, lips beginning to form a protest, but the mage gave her no chance. "The duty before you is too important for you to throw it aside for any reason. I am glad beyond measure that the two of you have found such happiness in each other, but you do not have the luxury that other lovers do of putting that love before all else. Love is selfish, which is the one thing above all others that a Grey Warden cannot be. The chances are good that one or more of us will fall before the end, but no matter who or how many are lost, you must go on."

Rebellion flared up briefly in Talia's face, then faded, and she nodded in resignation. "Duty first," she agreed, then snorted softly. "Maker knows, I've had that drilled into me since I was old enough to understand the concept." She gave the mage a faint smile. "You and Mother would have gotten on well, I think."

"I wish I had been able to meet her," Wynne replied. "She raised an extraordinary daughter."

"Not extraordinary," Talia disagreed, shaking her head. "We do what must be done." She spoke the words as though quoting them, her tone almost wistful as her face settled into a weary resolution. "That is the Cousland way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talia's words at the end of the chapter are a tribute to "We Do What Must Be Done", Ladyamesindy's masterpiece of a prequel to the Cousland origin (found on fanfiction.net) that I strongly suggest be considered canon.


	36. The Lady of the Forest

"You must stay calm."

Talia paused before the ancient stone door, turning to meet Leliana's worried eyes. The bard was right; she knew that, but anger simmered within her all the same. "We've fought all the way down here, damn near got Zev killed, and now this 'Lady' wants to talk?" One of the werewolves who escorted them snarled at her tone; she met his furious, golden glare with one of her own, as flat and cold as onyx, and he dropped his eyes.

"We have proven that we will not be easily deterred or defeated," Leliana told her, slipping a hand beneath the warrior's helmet to touch her cheek. "That they wish to parlay means that they can be reasoned with; perhaps there need be no more killing."

"And if it's a trick?" The girl she had been a year ago would have accepted the offer of a parlay without a second thought; the Warden knew too well the ever present possibility of betrayal.

"Then we fight," Leliana replied with a shrug, though her expression was grave. "We can always fight, no?"

"True enough," Talia conceded, knowing that if it came to that, they would find themselves at a decided disadvantage. Never let your foe dictate the terms of battle; even the greenest recruit at Highever had known that rule by heart. If they feared her little group enough to offer negotiation, then they could likely finish off the werewolves, along with this Lady that they spoke of so reverently, and Witherfang, as well. The Great Wolf had to be within these ruins; she could find him and kill him, saving Morrigan, ending the curse and gaining the assistance of the Dalish against the Blight. That was her duty as a Grey Warden, wasn't it?

_You are better than that._ The memory of Leliana's words at Lothering came back. Then, as now, there had been the easy path, the path that the fire in her blood demanded, and that few would gainsay her for taking, and the other path: more difficult, quite possibly more dangerous, but... _better_. Then, as now, the bard had watched her earnestly, and if she had ever needed more proof that Marjolaine's poisonous words had been lies, the gentle plea in those blue eyes, then and now, provided it.

"We talk," she agreed softly, holding her bard's gaze for a few moments longer, letting the unwavering faith in what was right, in _her_ , seep into her soul, calming her doubts and quelling her rage. Her eyes shifted to each of the others, seeking some clue as to their thoughts. Zev's face was impassive; he would follow whichever path she took without question, and, more importantly, she knew that he would protect Leliana if the situation deteriorated. Wynne's expression was approving, and Sten -

"We have defeated them in every engagement, _Kadan_ ," the qunari offered unexpectedly as she turned her face to him. "It is not dishonorable to hear their terms, if they wish to surrender."

"We will never surrender!" the one who had snarled earlier responded in its harsh, guttural voice, but Sten acted as though he had heard nothing, violet eyes focused upon Talia.

She nodded, barely suppressing the instinctive urge to look to Alistair. How many times in the last two days had she turned to seek counsel from him, only to remember that he was not there? She missed Brego's solid presence, Morrigan's blunt appraisals, even Shale's dry wit, as odd and occasionally unsettling as the golem could be, but it was her fellow Warden whose absence she felt most keenly. She missed his humor, missed his rock-steady presence in battle at her side, missed the fact that, regardless of the emotions that beset her, she could look into his eyes and know that he understood. He had become her brother, and the fact that the blood that tied them was tainted mattered not; they were bound even more closely than she and Fergus had been, and if she lost him, too...

_Then you will go on,_ the memory of Wynne's voice reminded her, and she knew that she would, but she also knew that one more piece of her would die forever, and she wondered how many more such losses it would take before she became a hollow shell of duty, sustained only by that cruel imperative.

Gentle fingers slipped beneath her helmet again, turning her head until she was looking into the eyes of the one other person who understood her best, and she knew that Leliana seen her hesitation, knew the reason for it.

"They will be all right," the bard whispered, giving her an encouraging smile. "Have faith."

_Sod it._ Slipping her helmet off, she leaned down to kiss the Orlesian, tender and lingering, not giving a damn about the onlooking eyes, letting the warmth of her lover's lips ward off the chill of fear, the scent of Andraste's Grace still there beneath the smells of leather and sweat and blood. There had been little time for intimacy once they had gone deeper into the Brecilian Forest, and none at all since they had left Alistair and the others in the Dalish camp, leaving behind even tents and bedrolls for the sake of speed, but a few hours of sleep in the embrace of her lover, even when neither of them had removed their armor and they slept leaning against the trunk of a tree, strengthened her as she had never realized anything could.

Wynne cleared her throat discreetly, and Talia stepped away reluctantly and replaced her helmet, squared her shoulders and pushed open the door. The smell rolled over her in a thick wave: the same musky, feral scent that had been present to a lesser degree in other areas was strong here: this was their den.

She moved forward, sword sheathed but her hand never far from its hilt, shield tucked close, ready to be lifted into position at a moment's notice. The room was huge, the vaulted ceiling curving overhead, the buttresses that supported it falling away, leaving cracks in the roof that let in beams of sunlight from the surface. The walls were covered in vines, and thick, twisted tree roots had burst through the stone here and there, snaking their way down and across the floor. Crude beds of poorly tanned skins spread over piles of leaves and branches lined the floor at the base of the walls. Scattered among the beds were items that had either been scavenged or stolen from human or Dalish settlements: buckets that held water, blankets, assorted pieces of clothing, shiny trinkets and jewelry.

The werewolves that surrounded them bore none of these items on their persons, clad only in their own, thick pelts: brown or black, grey or tawny, they shifted restlessly from two legs to four, golden eyes burning with barely repressed rage as the intruders walked among them. Talia counted a full twoscore: more than they'd seen at once so far, and more than enough to tear them all to bloody shreds.

She swallowed, gritting her teeth and fighting the urge to draw her sword. A wrong move now, and they would be dead; she had no choice but to follow this through to the end and hope that this Lady was honest in her desire for a truce. She kept her eyes ahead, ignoring the snarls that rose up around them, feeling the light pressure of Leliana's hand on her arm. The bard walked beside her, showing no outward sign of fear. Wynne was slightly behind and to her left, while Zevran occupied the same position on the right, and Sten loomed in the rear.

Ahead, a crumbling dais rose above the floor, and Talia recognized the scarred muzzle of the one called Swiftrunner at the head of the cluster of werewolves gathered there. As the small group approached, light and shadow began to swirl together in the midst of the shaggy forms, coalescing slowly into a humanoid shape. Talia watched impassively as the female stepped forward to greet them. She bore no more clothing than the werewolves, her skin the cool green of conifer boughs, her hair the deeper color of the moss that hung from the branches of the oaks beside the streams and creeks. Her graceful limbs ended in fingers that resembled slender twigs, and her dark eyes watched them calmly, the slitted pupils all but lost in their depths.

"Welcome." Her voice was gentle and oddly resonant. "I suspect that I am not as you expected me to be?"

"You could say that," Talia replied cautiously. "You are the Lady?"

"I am the Lady of the Forest," she confirmed with a slight nod.

"Begging your pardon," Zevran said, eying the nude form appraisingly, "but you seem to be more the Lady of the Ruins, from where I stand."

"Zev!" Talia hissed over her shoulder, even as Swiftrunner snarled and lunged forward, restrained only by the touch of the deceptively delicate looking, branchlike fingers.

"You will not address the Lady in such a manner!" he roared furiously, glaring at the elf.

"Peace, Swiftrunner," the woman admonished him as Talia tensed. "Your urge for battle has already cost the lives of many that you seek to protect. Is that what you wish?"

The great beast slumped beneath her reproof. "No, Lady," he groaned, dropping his head. "Anything but that."

She nodded, stroking his fur gently. "Then the time has come for us to speak with these outsiders, to set our rage aside." The strange eyes turned to Talia. "I apologize on Swiftrunner's behalf. He struggles against his nature."

"As do we all, Lady," Talia replied simply. Her own anger had drained away into bafflement and curiosity, but she remained keenly aware of their precarious situation. A bit of courtesy couldn't hurt.

The Lady's expression became faintly approving. "Yes, you know what it is to fight against yourself. I felt that when you first entered the forest. Will you hear what I have to say, then? Zathrian did not tell you everything."

"Why am I not surprised?" Talia muttered. "I will listen."

And listen she did, as Swiftrunner and the Lady unfolded the true story of the curse: the atrocities committed upon Zathrian's children by humans and his terrible revenge upon them, but the empathy that stirred within her withered as quickly as it had blossomed as the tale continued and the magnitude of his lies became apparent.

"If I kill this Witherfang, then anyone who is afflicted with the curse will die?" she asked slowly, feeling the anger building inside again, focused this time upon the Keeper. "He would kill his own people for the sake of his revenge?" And Morrigan with them, she reminded herself bleakly. "You infected Morrigan to make certain I wouldn't kill Witherfang," she said in sudden understanding, looking to Swiftrunner.

"I did." The werewolf looked torn between defiance and shame. "I could feel the magic in her, strong and wild. I hoped that she would feel the curse's link to Zathrian and know it for what it was."

"I wouldn't be surprised if she's figured it out by now," Talia replied tersely, "assuming she's still alive. The ones who attacked her nearly killed her outright."

"We are as we have been made!" Swiftrunner growled, defiance at the fore now. "As Zathrian has made us!"

"What would happen if we kill Zathrian first?" Zevran inquired with his usual chilling practicality.

"Then the curse will remain unbroken and unbreakable," the Lady replied. "Only Zathrian may remove it, but his own life has become tied to it. In ending the curse, he will also end his own life."

"So, he seeks to end the curse in a way that will leave him unharmed and kill others in his stead?" Leliana's expression was filled with revulsion. "That's horrible!"

"What do we do, then?" Talia wanted to know, frustration rising in her. If she wrung Zathrian's scrawny neck, as she was feeling strongly tempted to do, the curse would remain unchanged, and Morrigan would eventually succumb, but if she killed Witherfang -

"Where is Witherfang?" she asked suddenly, realizing that the Great Wolf was the one player in this odd drama that she had not yet encountered.

"Safe," the Lady replied serenely, but with a touch of steel beneath, "and I have the power to ensure that it remains so. I brought you here so that you could hear the truth of the matter, and to ask you to attempt to convince Zathrian to come here and speak with me, face to face. For years, I have sent word each time his clan passes near, asking him to see reason, and each time, I have been ignored." The beautiful, alien face hardened. "I will no longer be ignored. We attacked the clan to force the matter, and until he has come to face me, he may send as many as he likes; Witherfang will never be found until I so will it."

"Do you really think he would listen to us?" Talia asked her.

A faint, enigmatic smile touched the Lady's lips. "Tell him that if he comes, I will summon Witherfang, but only if he comes." Seeing the wary doubt in the Warden's eyes, she continued. "I have no wish to harm him, only to have him see these creatures and truly know of their plight. The crimes committed against Zathrian's children were heinous, but they were committed centuries ago, by those long dead. Surely his rage has not robbed him of all reason."

"I wouldn't count on that," Talia replied ruefully, feeling trapped and hating the feeling. "What if he refuses?"

"I ask only that you make the attempt," she replied, her face tipping upward thoughtfully for a long moment before she continued. "You may have already succeeded, at least in part."

They found Zathrian in the upper rooms of the ruins. "Glad to see you found your way through the mists," Talia remarked, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in her voice. She couldn't kill the man, but she was damned if she was going to be nice to him. "Good of you to share that information with us, too." In truth, dealing with the Grand Oak hadn't been overly difficult; the mad hermit who had stolen the spirit-possessed tree's precious acorn had proven quite willing to trade the seed for a sweater that Wynne had been knitting for Alistair, and the branch that the Elder Tree had pulled from its own limbs was infused with a power well beyond that which had parted the mists before them to reveal the elven ruins.

But the Keeper had evidently possessed the ability to penetrate the mists all along, must have known about the elven tombs, but he had allowed them to flounder, wasting precious time in their search.

Zathrian did not bother to respond to her remark. "Do you have the heart?" he demanded curtly.

"As a matter of fact, I don't," she shot back, matching his tone.

His scowl deepened. "Then why are you leaving?"

"It seems there were a few other things you forgot to mention, as well." She caught Leliana's warning glance and took a deep, steadying breath before continuing. "Or are you going to try to tell me that you didn't know that killing Witherfang would kill everyone afflicted with the curse?"

"Including your mage, which is the only reason that it would matter to you," he countered haughtily. "You need concern yourself with that no longer; I came to inform you that she is dead. The curse took her, and she had to be killed to protect the clan."

Talia's breath caught, her heart seeming to stop in her chest for the few seconds that it took for Leliana to speak up. "You lie, Zathrian, as you have since we first came to you. We have met the Lady of the Forest; we know the truth."

"The truth?" he regarded her with contempt. "Your 'Lady' is nothing more than a forest spirit that can change its shape. It is also Witherfang; did it tell you that truth?"

Leliana's eyes shifted to Talia, who shrugged. She'd heard and seen far stranger since leaving Highever with Duncan. "She wants to speak to you," she told him. "She asked me to request that of you."

"I have no reason to speak with it," he replied, shaking his head dismissively.

"Except for the fact that she will not allow Witherfang to be found unless you do," Talia told him.

"I told you that it _is_ Witherfang!" he snapped.

"But she must take the form of the Great Wolf to be killed, if the curse is to be broken." Wynne stated, her face set in lines of stern censure. "Such magics are quite specific in their nature, and she will not summon Witherfang unless you speak with her."

Rage flashed briefly across Zathrian's features, then was replaced by an impassive mask, but not before Talia caught a flash of something else in his eyes. "Very well. Though I do not see the point, I will speak with this spirit. Let us go."

He strode ahead, as calmly arrogant as ever; Talia exchanged a worried glance with Leliana, who nodded gravely. She had seen it, too.

As had Wynne. "He is planning something," the mage warned her in a low voice as they followed the Keeper.

"I know," Talia replied. "Be ready." She kept her eyes on Zathrian's back, forcing her worries for Morrigan and the others to the back of her mind. Leliana was likely right about the claim that Morrigan was dead being a lie, but even if it wasn't, there was nothing she could do to change it.

Zathrian stood before the dais, ignoring the werewolves, regarding the Lady calmly. "I have come, spirit."

"She is the Lady of the Forest!" Swiftrunner bellowed. "You will address her as such!"

The Keeper's flat gaze shifted briefly to the leader of the werewolves, then back to the spirit. "So, you've taken a name," he told her, his lip curling in contempt, "and you've taught your pets to speak. Have you given them names, as well?"

"It was they who named me, Zathrian," she replied, "and the names they have taken are their own. They learned to speak because they wished to, because they are more than the beasts that you would have them be."

"The fact that a dog can do a trick does not make it any less a dog," he replied, ignoring the snarls that his words elicited. "They are savages, as were those who came before them; all the curse has done is reveal their true nature."

The Lady's expression hardened. "And what of those of your own clan who have been afflicted with the curse, Zathrian? Are they savages, as well?"

"You attacked the clan and infected them," he countered without hesitation. "Their fates lie upon your head, not mine!"

"Talia!" Wynne's urgent warning came just as the Keeper raised his staff and struck the butt hard against the granite floor, releasing a wave of magical energy.

The Lady's form shimmered, wavered and then reformed like molten wax filling a mold, leaving them facing a wolf whose size would have dwarfed Brego.

"Behold Witherfang!" Zathrian's voice cracked like a whip. "Now kill it, Warden, as you agreed to do!"

"No." Talia shook her head, eyes shifting warily between the Keeper and the werewolves, hoping they would not attack and force her hand. "I agreed to help you end the curse, not kill your own people."

"Then die with them!" he shouted, raising his staff again, not seeing the roots snaking across the stone floor until they had twined themselves about his arms and legs, immobilizing him, forcing him to his knees and snatching away his staff.

The shape of Witherfang shimmered and wavered, reforming once more into the Lady. "You have bound me to this curse, Zathrian," she said as she approached him, "but you do not control me. I _am_ this forest, and my power was old before your ancestors left Elvhanan."

"Kill me if you wish," he said through gritted teeth, "but that will not end the curse!"

A curious look, of equal parts compassion and sorrow, touched her face. "I do not seek your death, Keeper; I ask that you end the curse."

"Never!" he cried out, features twisted in rage. "My vengeance is eternal, as is my pain."

"But the ones who caused that pain are long dead!" Talia stepped forward, glaring at him in exasperation. "Your curse claims innocents, those who have done you no wrong, and now it touches your clan, as well! How long will you punish them for things they did not do?"

"What else can I do? What would _you_ do, Warden?" he demanded suddenly. "If you held your son's mutilated body in your arms, looked into your daughter's broken eyes, and knew that you had the power to avenge them, would you not do just that?"

She heard Leliana's harsh intake of breath, but it was as though it came from far away. She sank slowly to her knees before him, her eyes never leaving his. "I held the body of my brother's son, murdered in his bed with his mother dead beside him, her throat cut so deeply that it nearly took her head off." Her voice was raw with emotion, her face bare, letting him see every wound of that night.

"I saw my father's guts spread across the floor of our larder, left my mother to certain death because it was my duty," she spat the word as a curse, "to bring word to my brother and the King, to see that justice was done. I saw the only home I had ever known put to the torch by one who had called himself a friend to my family; when I reached Ostagar, instead of justice, I found more betrayal. I do not even know if my brother – my only remaining kin – is alive or dead. If I get the chance, I'll take my vengeance on those responsible, but not at the cost of stopping the Blight, and not if I have to take innocent lives in the process. Such a thing is an abomination in the sight of your gods, as well as the Maker."

"I swore to them," he said hoarsely. "I swore that the tortures visited upon them would be repaid a thousandfold."

"And you have seen that done," she replied softly, "but what would your children say about the tortures visited on your own clan by this curse? Is that what they would want?"

He held her eyes for a moment longer, then slumped, his head drooping in defeat. "What of you, spirit?" he asked in a low voice. "If I end the curse, your life will end along with mine. Do you not fear this?"

"I have been too long bound to these forms," the Lady told him, fingers slipping beneath his chin to lift his eyes to hers. "The curse weighs as heavily upon my shoulders as it does on yours. Free us both, my maker: release me to the forest once more and join your lost ones in Uthenera. Let the children of men go free to find their own destinies."

A shudder rolled through the Keeper as he released a sigh that seemed to come from his very bones. "It...is time," he agreed heavily, his expression distant, as though he could already see his children. The roots that entwined his arms and legs withdrew, allowing him to push himself to his feet and reclaim his staff.

Talia stepped away, feeling Leliana's hand slip into hers as they watched the Lady of the Forest move among the werewolves, reaching up to gently caress a shaggy head, a broad shoulder. Though they towered over her, they seemed as suddenly uncertain as small children, massive, clawed hands reaching out to touch her with surprising gentleness, as though seeking reassurance.

At last, she stepped forward, facing Zathrian on the dais, her expression serene. "Let it be done," she intoned, her fingers twining with the Keeper's around his staff. Zathrian nodded, his eyes finding Talia's. He looked haggard, as though all of his years had come to rest on him at once, but strangely peaceful, as well. "Tell Lanaya...tell her that she is ready."

The Warden nodded, and the ancient elf turned his gaze back to that of the Lady. As one, they lifted the staff slowly, Zathrian's lips moving in a near soundless whisper, then brought it down. The stone floor seemed to shimmer at the point of impact, a wind whirling upward and expanding until it filled the great chamber, gentle and warm. The forms of Zathrian and the Lady slowly blurred and faded until nothing remained but the upright staff. The wind swirled around the werewolves, ruffling their fur briefly before it too blurred and faded, their massive, brutish bodies shrinking, reforming...

The staff fell to the floor with a brittle clatter.

The man who had been Swiftrunner drew a deep breath, staring disbelievingly at his hands: hairless and clawless. "She is...gone," he murmured, his voice a halting baritone. His hair was dark brown, shaggy and unkempt, and heavily shot through with grey, but the incredulous eyes that lifted to regard Talia were still golden, as were the eyes of all the others that she could see.

The eyes made a convenient point of focus, because they were all stark naked.

"I – we thank you, Warden," Swiftrunner said, sinking to one knee before her, his actions mirrored by the others. "We are in your debt."

"There is no debt, Swiftrunner," Talia said uncomfortably, motioning for them to stand. "What had been done to you was wrong."

"And it is because of you that the wrong has been undone," he replied, the others nodding in agreement, all of them still seeming slightly dazed at finding themselves in their original forms once more. "The Lady spoke to us of the Blight, and the danger that it poses to all. We would offer our services to you until the darkspawn have been defeated."

Talia looked uncertainly at each of them in turn. Even the women were strong and lithely muscled; they would make a formidable fighting force, but -

"I'm grateful for the offer, Swiftrunner, but you should really take some time and find out what it is to be human again, shouldn't you?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "I – do not know where we would go, Warden," he confessed. "The curse touches us even now; though we were not immortal, it still extended our lives beyond what was normal. Most of our families would be long dead, and we would be strangers in the villages that we once called home; I cannot even recall where I lived or who I was before."

"What about Redcliffe?" Leliana spoke up suddenly. "The town lost many to the demon's creations, and the Arl's forces were reduced during the quest for the Urn. He would welcome them, if you asked it of him, and help them become acclimated to human society again. Revered Mother Hannah seemed a good woman; she would help, as well."

"That's an excellent idea," Talia agreed, giving the bard a grateful smile. "I assume you've got a scroll and quill?" The musical laugh was all the answer she needed, and she turned back to Swiftrunner as Leliana began rummaging through her pack. "Arl Eamon of Redcliffe is a good man, and our ally against the Blight. He is in need of more men and women; it would be a good place for you to start your lives again, and safe for now."

Swiftrunner hesitated, turning to the rest of the group, who plainly still regarded him as their leader. "It shall be as you say," he agreed at last, turning back to the Warden, "but when the time comes for fighting, we will stand with you."

"That is good to know," Talia told him, and meant it. Small though their numbers were, if they retained even a portion of the prowess in combat they had displayed in their former shapes, they would be strong allies. She accepted parchment, quill and ink from Leliana, and bent over a fallen column to scrawl some sort of explanation to the Arl, wondering what he would make of her story.

As she wrote, she could see the naked humans rummaging among their meager belongings, putting on ragged items of clothes that at least met the basic demands of modesty. By the time the ink had dried and she had rolled up the parchment, securing it with a length of twine, Swiftrunner stood before her again, clad in a threadbare pair of trews.

"Give this to the Arl," she told him, giving him the scroll and using a second piece of parchment to sketch out a map. "Stay to the north of the Korcari Wilds and you should avoid all but a few darkspawn. There are a few towns on the way; get yourselves some clothes and weapons when you can." Ignoring his protest, she pressed a small bag of coins into his hand: part of what they had taken from the hoard of the dragon in the upper levels of the ruins.

He accepted with a slow nod, hefting the bag as though trying to recall what its contents were used for, then studied the map intently. "I remember that lake, I think...and the tower." His forehead creased briefly, then smoothed. "Perhaps I even lived in this Redcliffe once, eh?" he joked, though the shadows in his eyes suggested that the lack of memory troubled him. He gave his head a little shake. "Come, friends," he called to the others. "Let us be away from this place."

They left in near complete silence, the innate, feral grace in their movements suggesting that not all of the changes wrought by the curse had abandoned them. Within seconds, the great chamber was empty, save for Talia and her companions.

"Every time I think things can't get stranger," she remarked, bending to retrieve Zathrian's staff and passing it to Wynne to hold until they could give it to Lanaya.

Leliana giggled. "I wonder what Arl Eamon will make of his newest subjects?"

"I expect he'll like them better as they are now," Talia replied with a faint smile that soon faded. "Let's get back to the camp," she said quietly, hoping that the bard had been right about Zathrian lying when he'd claimed that Morrigan was dead, but unable to completely suppress her dread of what they might find.


	37. In Uthenera

"I have already told you that I am fine, and if you persist in your attempts to foist that foul tasting concoction on me, you will not be!" Morrigan's strident voice rang out clearly from the far side of their little camp; moments later, Wynne returned to the fireside, shaking her head in amused resignation.

"She should be ready to travel tomorrow," the mage announced, her blue eyes finding Alistair. "Your turn."

"I'm fine, too," he said quickly, thumping his chest with a balled up fist. "Hale and hearty."

"I'll be the judge of that, young man," Wynne informed him crisply, crooking a finger at him.

"But -"

"Go with her, Alistair." Talia didn't move from where she was stretched out before the fire, her head resting in Leliana's lap, but she cracked open an eye to look at her fellow Warden.

"All right, all right," he groused, coming to his feet and following the mage. When they had returned to the Dalish camp, they had found Morrigan, healed of her wounds, but still very weak, and Alistair teetering with exhaustion and alarmingly thin. Two days of rest, coupled with Wynne's healing spells and restorative potions had improved both of them, but his clothes were still visibly loose on his tall frame as he walked away from the fire. Talia opened her other eye to watch him, her forehead creased with worry.

"He'll be fine," the bard assured her, drawing her fingers through the tumble of dark hair. "Wynne knows what she is doing."

"I know." The Warden tilted her head into the touch, her eyes closing and the troubled expression smoothing slightly. "Just glad we ended it when we did."

"Yes." Another day or so of trying to hold back the progression of the curse, not only in Morrigan, but in the afflicted elves, as well, would likely have killed Alistair.

"What do you suppose passed between them in our absence?" Zevran spoke up, leaning indolently against one of the logs that had been dragged around the fire.

Sten paused in drawing his whetstone along Asala's blade to glare at the assassin. "Must you always gossip like an old woman, elf?"

"Seeing as how the only old woman in our group avoids the activity entirely, it seemed only fair that someone should take up the task," Zev replied, unaffected by the qunari's criticism. "And since Shale has refused to enlighten me, I am reduced to speculation."

"The painted elf assumes that I actually paid attention to such things," the golem droned. "I was asked to guard against attacks, so I was watching for hostile actions."

"And in three days, you saw no hostility between Morrigan and Alistair?" The Antivan quirked an eyebrow. "That has to be a record."

"There were a few distractions, Zevran," Talia reminded him without opening her eyes.

"Ah, but in such tense moments, the flowers of romance bloom the brightest," the elf proclaimed grandly, before winking and adding, "or the flowers of lust, at least."

"Yes, the swamp witch was undoubtedly most desirable laid out with her innards exposed, in the midst of elves transforming into werewolves," Shale said. "How the templar was able to resist such temptation is indeed a mystery."

"Thank you for that image, Shale," Talia murmured, propping herself up on an elbow and regarding the elf steadily. "I'll make you a deal, Zev: you stop speculating about what went on while we were gone and I don't ask Wynne how she likes you calling her an old woman."

"Blackmail, my dear Warden?" Zevran smirked at her. "I'm beginning to feel like I am back in Antiva...if it were only a bit warmer." He inched closer to the fire, lifting his eyes to the thinning canopy of leaves with a suitably theatrical sigh. His gaze dropped again, staring past Sten. "Good evening, Keeper. Have you finally decided to accept my offer?"

The qunari never raised his eyes from his task, but Talia sat up as Lanaya approached.

"Good evening, Zevran," the clan's new Keeper replied with a faint smile that made clear what the nature of the offer had been...not that there had really been any doubt, Zev being Zev, Leliana reflected. "And I fear that I must continue to respectfully decline. I am here to speak with the Wardens."

" _Andaran atish'an,_ " Talia said immediately, gesturing toward an empty spot on one of the logs.

Lanaya's smile widened. " _Ma serannas,_ " she replied, bowing slightly before accepting the proffered spot. "A bit more time, and you will be speaking as one born among us."

"More than a bit, I think," Talia replied, though much of her time the previous two days had been spent among the Dalish, learning their language and customs. A few of the elders of the clan remained suspicious of the Wardens, refusing to accept Zathrian's role in the deaths of so many of their number, but most of the elves had witnessed the confrontation between the old Keeper and Morrigan, and Lanaya's acceptance had ended any open hostility. "Alistair should be back soon," she went on, shifting back until she could lean against the log behind her and draping an arm around Leliana's shoulders. The bard scooted a bit closer, resting her head on the Warden's shoulder with a soft sigh of contentment. The peace of the Dalish camp had been a welcome respite after the relentless tension of the hunt for Witherfang, and the knowledge that it was only temporary had made her all the more determined to savor it as long as it lasted.

"He's back," Alistair announced, walking between two of the tents and working his mouth in a grimace. "Why does medicine always taste bad?"

"Nan said that it was so that people wouldn't pretend to be sick," Talia replied, a shadow flitting across her face and gone before any but Leliana - and perhaps Alistair - had the chance to register its presence. "I never understood why anyone would pretend to be sick in the first place."

He chuckled as he sat down. "You've never been assigned kitchen duty in a Chantry, then."

Lanaya laughed softly. "We've more than one apprentice beset by that particular illness," she observed wryly, "and our healers use the same type of remedy. Tincture of elfroot can be very bitter if you cook it a bit too long, without affecting its healing properties."

"Not so loud," Alistair cautioned her, glancing back in the direction from which he had come. "Wynne doesn't need any more help in that area."

"She seems quite skilled," the Keeper agreed. "I am glad to see you and your companion doing so well. You all risked much to help us; it will not be forgotten."

"It wasn't entirely altruistic, Lanaya," Talia reminded her.

"Perhaps not, but neither was it wholly rooted in self interest," Lanaya replied. "By acting as you did, you allowed Zathrian to reclaim his honor in the eyes of the clan that he served for so long. What he did was wrong, but he was not an evil man."

"I know," Talia said softly. "I know why he did what he did, and I know that pain. I could very easily have been like he was: consumed by the desire for revenge. I still could," she admitted, her arm tightening slightly around Leliana's shoulders, "if I didn't have friends to keep me steady." Her lips twitched in a faint smile as Wynne appeared and settled beside the fire. "And kick my ass when needed."

The elf nodded. "There were none here for many generations who would ever have considered even questioning Zathrian, let alone reprimanding him...myself included. Had you not intervened, the curse would likely have claimed the whole of our clan and spread beyond. Your deeds will be remembered and taught to our young for as long as tales are told and songs sung."

It was the aspect of Dalish culture that appealed to Leliana most: they wrote very little, passing on their history in an oral tradition that extended to before the days of Andraste. History books were dull affairs for the most part, doomed to sit ignored on shelves, save for scholars, but to be the subject of an epic ballad or story was to achieve a sort of immortality. While Talia's time had largely been spent with the warriors and hunters, the bard had been listening to Sarel, the clan's storyteller, soaking up as much as she could and remembering...

"We will be moving on tomorrow," Lanaya went on. "Those who were injured have regained their strength, and we must begin to send runners to contact the other clans, but tonight we will gather together to remember those who were lost. You are welcome to join us."

"It would be an honor," Talia replied, watching as the Keeper rose, bowed again and walked away. "I would have killed him," she said flatly, as soon as the elf was out of earshot, her eyes staring into the dancing flames of the fire, "and I would have helped him kill Witherfang, if it wouldn't have killed Morrigan along with the elves. I did what I did because I didn't have a choice."

"And you are a fool for not accepting Zathrian's proposal," Morrigan announced calmly as she joined them at the fire, still a bit paler than was usual, but otherwise seeming fully recovered and as acerbic as ever. "One of such power and stature among the elves would have been a valuable ally against the Blight."

"And the fact that it would have left you dead doesn't bother you in the least, right?" Alistair drawled, turning to regard the witch with an irritated expression. "Funny, but I remember you saying something quite different a few days ago." While Leliana's imagination was not so inclined toward romance, there was no denying that there had been a shift in the currents between him and the witch in their absence. The two of them stayed well away from each other in camp, speaking seldom, and yet, she had frequently caught one of them looking at the other with a thoughtful, faintly troubled expression that vanished quickly when the individual in question realized they were being observed.

"I did not say that I was not pleased with her choice," Morrigan replied with the faintest edge in her voice. "Merely that it was quite possibly not the wisest one in regards to her long term chances of success. With the exception of the pair of you, no one is unexpendable."

"That included Zathrian," Talia informed her, lips twisted into a sardonic smirk and an odd, bitter light in her eyes. "The Wardens decide who they need, and allies who lie are less than useless, power or not." She gave the witch a tight smile. "That 'coldly reasonable' enough for you?"

Morrigan nodded slowly, her golden eyes on Talia's face. "It is." As always, the witch seemed to be able to sense when she had pushed just a shade less than too far.

"Good." Talia pushed herself up from the ground, her arm slipping from around Leliana's shoulders, and ducked into the tent that they shared. Leliana glared at Morrigan, whom she'd never heard thank any of them for saving her life, then followed.

"Talia, what is it?" She caught the warrior's arm, turning her so that they were face to face, reaching a hand up to touch her cheek. She'd caught fleeting hints of an odd melancholy in the Warden since they'd left the elven tombs, but it had always been there and gone before she could speak up. "Tell me, please? I know something has been troubling you."

"I don't know," Talia said softly. There was no anger in those dark eyes, only a hollowness touched at the edges with fear. "I don't know whether to loathe Zathrian or envy him. He loved his children enough to do whatever it took to avenge them -"

"But in doing so, he brought pain and death to countless innocents who had nothing to do with his children's fate," Leliana protested, framing Talia's face in her hands. "He was even ready to let those of his own clan perish, rather than end the curse. That is not love, Talia; that is hate, and you have seen what lies down that path."

"I know...I know," Talia murmured, resting her forehead against the bard's, arms encircling her waist. "I just can't seem to stop thinking about them, about that night, wondering what I could have done."

"You did all that you could, Talia," Leliana replied, kissing her gently and remembering Wynne's words about the path out of grief not being a straight one. At least now, she would accept comfort.

"I never got to give them a proper pyre." Talia closed her eyes, pain washing over her features. "I don't even know if they were burned, or their bodies tossed on the trash heap for the crows."

"Then tonight's ceremony will be for them, as well," Leliana promised her, "and when this is all over, you and I will go to Highever, and we will have a memorial service befitting their station."

"When this is over," Talia echoed, staring into her eyes, drinking in the hope that she offered with those words. "Thank you," she whispered, her eyes too bright, but tears still refusing to spill.

"You're welcome," the bard responded, drawing her lover into an embrace, feeling the tension in the muscles over her back and shoulders. "I'm here for you, always."

"I know." Talia caught her hands and drew them down, kissing each in turn. "We should probably change into slightly more presentable clothes."

"More than slightly," Leliana admonished her, fingering a sizable hole in one shoulder of the tunic the warrior was wearing. "I'm taking you shopping in the next town of any size that we pass through. Didn't your mother ever teach you needlework?"

"She tried." Talia grinned as she pulled the tunic over her head, then bent to rummage in her pack for something that the bard would deem more suitable, carelessly tossing rejected items to the floor of the tent. "After I got myself tangled up with Brego and two of the cats, she gave up."

"Oh, for the love of -" Leliana snatched up one garment that had been wadded into a ball. "She couldn't teach you how to fold or pack either, I take it?"

"She did," the Warden protested. "I just don't have time on the road, that's all. And they fit better in the bag that way."

"They wouldn't if you folded them properly!" the bard informed her in exasperation, grabbing the pack and upending it. "Wear this and...these." She picked out a tunic and trews that were not too terribly wrinkled and tossed them to her. "Now, watch and learn. And when we go shopping, you will get at least one simple dress!"

"A dress?" Talia yelped. "What do I need with a dress out here?"

Leliana shook her head with a sigh, shaking one of the tunics out as best she could, folding it neatly, then rolling it up, repeating the process until she had a stack of folded and rolled clothes which she tucked back into the pack, leaving room to spare. "You see?" she asked Talia with a smug expression.

"I see that I just got my clothes folded and repacked," Talia announced cheerfully.

"Ooh! You!" The bard pounced, but their playful wrestling match quickly shifted in tenor, laughter fading as the desire that neither of them had any interest in denying asserted itself.

A discreet clearing of a throat outside their tent, then Alistair's voice. "I believe that the elves are waiting for us."

"Or should we simply charge admission?" came Morrigan's tart query.

Talia drew back, eyes dancing with amusement, shadows banished for the moment. "Be right out," she called, sitting up and straightening her clothes while Leliana sorted through her own pack, selecting and donning a deep blue woolen skirt, a blousy white linen chemise and a soft leather kirtle dyed to match the skirt. No shoes, unfortunately, but bare feet were perfectly acceptable here.

"Well?" she asked, twirling before her Warden, delighting in the way the skirt flared and then fell back into place.

"You look beautiful," Talia replied, her approval plain on her face as she tightened her sword belt at her waist, settling Starfang over her left hip.

"It would please me to see you so garbed on occasion," Leliana told her persuasively. "You looked lovely in the dress that Isolde provided for you."

"All right," the warrior conceded, taking the bard's hand and pulling her close. "One dress. For you."

"And shoes?" Leliana persisted, knowing when to press an advantage.

"And shoes," Talia agreed with a good-natured roll of her eyes. "I'll even let you pick it all out...but I have to be able to walk!"

"Trust me, my love," the bard said, standing on her toes to steal a final kiss before slipping her arm through Talia's. "Now come; it will be easier to tame your hair sitting outside by the fire."

The ceremony was a quiet affair, and dignified. Words were spoken and tales told of each of those who had been lost, and the trees that would serve as their earthly memorials had been planted earlier that day. Songs were sung in the lilting Dalish tongue, and though Leliana could comprehend perhaps one word in five, she knew the names of Arlathan and Elvhenan, the homeland that had been lost centuries ago and still mourned by the elves.

The firelight cast strange shadows on the face of each elf who stepped into its glow to offer story or song, the markings of the _vallaslin_ – some delicate and graceful, others harsh and forbidding, adding a deeper air of mystery to their faces.

The stars were bright and the moon high overhead when there was a pause, and she realized that Sarel's eyes were upon her. She had learned many of their songs and stories in the past two days, but what was foremost in her mind was something that she had first heard long ago.

Squeezing Talia's hand, she stepped forward into the firelight, lifting her lute. "A very wise elven woman sang a song for me when my mother died, many years ago," she began, drawing her fingers across the strings, beginning to weave the haunting melody. "She told me that death is not something to be feared, or hated. It is simply another step in our journey into what lies beyond."

She did not turn around, but she could feel the weight of Talia's gaze upon her as she lifted her voice, weaving it effortlessly into the notes that fell from the lute, hearing Lanaya's voice softly translating the words for the Warden and her companions:

_"hahren na melana sahlin_

_emma ir abelas_

_souver'inan isala hamin_

_vhenan him dor'felas_

_in uthenera na revas_

_vir sulahn'nehn_

_vir dirthera_

_vir samahl la numin_

_vir lath sa'vunin"_

Around her, she saw surprise and approval in the eyes of the elves, along with the occasional scowl of outrage that a _shemlen_ would sing of _Uthenera_ , the long sleep that hearkened back to the days when the elves were all but immortal. The approving looks far outweighed the others, however, and Sarel's nod told her that her choice of song had been a good one.

When she turned back to Talia, however, she felt her heart fall. The Warden stared at her, dark eyes stricken and the walls of her control visibly crumbling.

"Talia -" The bard took a step toward her, but she backed away quickly, shaking off Alistair's hand on her arm and turning to vanish into the darkness beyond the fire's light.

"Does this mean we won't be treated to an encore?" Morrigan's voice dripped false sincerity. "Pity."

"Stow it, Morrigan," he growled, moving to Leliana's side. "It's all right, Leli."

"How can you say that?" she cried, her mind awash with memories of that first night they'd been on watch together, and how badly she'd blundered then. "I wanted to comfort her, but I've only hurt her again."

"A boil must be lanced before it can heal," Wynne offered, taking the lute before it could fall from the bard's hands. "She has kept her wounds hidden deep, but I think the time has finally come for her to grieve as she was not permitted to before."

"Wynne's right," Alistair said, his expression somber. "She's been holding it back for months, but I think she needs this now." He turned his head to regard the shadow that hovered just outside the glow of the flames. "Take us to her, boy."

Brego whined low in his throat and immediately turned in the direction that Talia had taken. The mabari had been overjoyed by his mistress' return, but his bond with Alistair seemed to have been strengthened by their time together; he would generally obey the other Warden now without looking first to Talia, as though accepting that they spoke as one.

"We'll be back," Alistair promised Wynne, pausing only long enough to retrieve cloaks for himself and Leliana from camp before taking the bard's hand and following Brego through the trees. She walked beside him, lost in misery and fear, terrified of what they might encounter when they found Talia, barely able to consider the thought of facing those wounded, accusing eyes again.

The mabari led them deep into the forest without hesitation, stopping and settling to his haunches at the edge of a large, moonlit clearing, his eyes fixed on the figure at its center.

Unencumbered by her armor, Talia was a dervish in the argent light, but her movements bore no resemblance to the precise and controlled forms that she had learned from Sten. She whirled and twisted, dodged and struck, lashing out with Starfang again and again, the ragged gasp of her breath and her footsteps the only sounds she made as she struck killing blow after killing blow, her face set in an implacable mask and her eyes fathomless wells of rage and grief.

A harsh sob escaped the bard, and she dropped her eyes, unable to bear the sight of her lover's torment, but Alistair watched with an expression of sorrow and compassion.

"Talia." His voice was low and calm, and he did not try to approach her. At the sound of his voice, she slowed her deadly dance, but only slightly, her eyes cutting briefly toward them before returning to whatever demons she faced.

"I fought," she grated out, parrying an unseen blade and slashing out in return, "at Ostagar, Lothering, Honnleath."

She twisted, sword cleaving through the air, the litany continuing, almost a chant now. "Soldier's Peak, Redcliffe, the Circle, Haven, here."

She spun, blocking high, then striking low...then high, then low again. "Fought for people I didn't know, didn't give a damn about, because it's what I'm _supposed_ to do."

"And I keep getting better." Her teeth were bared in a snarl, something bright and terrible shining in her eyes now.

"Stronger." A powerful side-to-side sweep that would have sliced a man in half.

"Faster." Quick as a thought, she lunged, executing a series of strikes that could be seen only as a silvered blur.

She stopped without warning, facing them with Starfang held before her, as still as a statue. "If I had been this good then, could I have saved them?" The words were a child's plea, anguish surfacing in her eyes, begging for an answer.

"No." It was Alistair who spoke, the single word gentle and laden with regret, but firm, his eyes meeting hers without hesitation. Leliana was frozen, her throat locked in sorrow, fearful of saying or doing the wrong thing as he stepped forward, his hands outstretched. "You would have killed more of Howe's men, but there were too many of them. The end result would have been the same, except that you would have died with all the others at Highever. Is that what you want?"

The question was a blunt one, and it seemed to Leliana that her heart did not beat in the moments between it and Talia's reply.

"No." Her voice was weaker now, almost bewildered as the rage passed, leaving only sorrow in its wake. "Not any more, but...it still hurts." The last two words wavered, growing thick with tears, and the hand that held Starfang dropped to her side, the sword slipping unnoticed from her fingers. "It hurts so damn _much_!"

He moved quickly to catch her as she stumbled, guiding them both to their knees in an unconscious mirror of that moment at Ostagar weeks ago, his arms folding around her as she buried her face in his shoulder and cried, screamed, howled out her pain and loss, and now Leliana could move, kneeling beside them and hugging Talia, feeling the sobs that shook her lover and the tears on her own face. Brego approached slowly, whimpering softly as he nudged his way into the embrace. Surrounded by the three of them, Talia's grief stormed, crested and finally – after what seemed an eternity - ebbed. The tension seeped from her muscles, and her breathing grew slow and even.

"She's asleep," Alistair said quietly, carefully shifting the burden of her until she lay with her head resting in the bard's lap, one arm draped over Brego's shoulders. "I could carry her back, but I think you'll be safe enough here." He glanced at Brego, who chuffed his agreement, eased out from under Talia's arm and sat up, the picture of vigilance. "Not like we haven't already killed everything that moves in this part of the forest," he muttered under his breath as he got to his feet, taking off his cloak and laying it over Talia.

"You're not staying?" Leliana asked.

He shook his head. "It's you she'll be looking for when she wakes," he said, looking down at the still form with a gentle affection, "and if one of us doesn't go back to camp soon, they'll start sending out search parties."

She smiled fondly at him. "You will make some lucky girl very happy one day, Alistair."

"Just one?" he quipped, with a fair imitation of Zevran's lecherous smile.

"Yes," the bard replied without any doubt. "Eventually just one, and if she doesn't make you just as happy, she'll have us to deal with."

He grinned at her, shy but obviously pleased at her words. "Yes, well...if I do happen to find a likely candidate, do me a favor and don't tell her that until after the wedding."

He left, then, and Leliana studied Talia's sleeping face, her fingers smoothing back errant strands of hair. She looked peaceful, more relaxed than the bard had ever seen her, and she realized that Alistair had been right: Talia had needed this release, this catharsis, as painful as it had been to watch.

_A boil must be lanced before it can heal._

"Sing for me?" She'd been staring up at the moon, pondering the truth of Wynne's words, when Talia spoke, and she looked down to find the dark eyes watching her, clear and calm.

She knew what the warrior was asking. "Are you sure, Talia?" Her hand brushed over a cheek that was still slightly damp with tears. "I don't want to hurt you -"

"You didn't." Talia caught her hand, bringing it to her lips. "What happened...it needed to happen. I've never been able to stop wondering if I could have changed anything that night, done anything different. I blamed myself for leaving them, for not dying with them, but they wanted me to live, and not just to see that Howe faced justice. I know them better than that."

Her hand reached up, fingers lightly tracing the curve of the Orlesian's cheek. "They wanted to give me the chance to find what they had, what Fergus had with Oriana: to know that kind of love and happiness, and I found it with you." A finger pressed to her lips when she tried to speak. "Sing for me, my bard."

She nodded, her heart aching with a sweet joy in her chest, and began to sing softly, her only accompaniment the chirping of crickets and the wind in the trees. Talia lay still, watching her in silence until the last of the elvish words had faded into the night air.

"We sing, rejoice, we tell the tales," she whispered, quoting the translation that Lanaya had given. "We laugh and cry, we love one more day." She pushed upright, propping herself on one hand, her eyes steady on Leliana's as her free hand stroked the bard's hair. "It is what they wanted me to do."

She bit her lip, looking suddenly shy. "I have something for you," she began, her hand dropping to the pouch at her belt and drawing something from within. "I found it in the dragon's horde in the ruins, and Master Varathorn helped me clean it up."

She held up her hand, letting the object dangle from her fingers on a delicate silver chain, and Leliana felt her breath catch. The sword had been cast in silver, gleaming softly in the moonlight and surrounded by flames of carved and polished amber that caught the moon's rays and burned with an inner fire. The Sword of Mercy, symbolizing the blade that Archon Hessarian had used to spare the Prophet the agony of burning alive, combined with Her own Eternal Flame. "It is beautiful," she murmured, her fingers brushing wonderingly over the amulet.

"You're beautiful," Talia replied, slipping the chain around the bard's neck and fastening it. "Strength, tempered with kindness, and a light that shines forever in the darkness. That is you, my love. Alistair keeps me sane, and Wynne keeps me honest, but you are my strength, my hope, my light." Sword callused fingers moved gently up the line of her neck to cup her cheek. "I've been following your light since I went back to Lothering for you. More than anything or anyone else, you are the reason that I haven't given in to the hate and anger, the reason I haven't fallen."

"I -" The words would not come, choked off by emotion. Leliana wanted to protest that she was not worthy of such a comparison, wanted to tell Talia that it was the Warden who had been her salvation, freeing her at last from the guilt and shame of her past. Instead, she drew Talia into her kiss, letting the warrior lower her gently to the forest floor as Brego politely retreated to a more discreet distance to stand guard.


	38. Rest, Repairs and Rumors

Morrigan glared out the window at the snow-covered ground, trying hard not to think of the four walls that surrounded her. Granted, the fact that the Dryden clan had made extensive headway in their renovations of the keep at Soldier's Peak (a bit surprising, since the sheer size of the squalling brood of children suggested that most of their spare time was occupied by procreation) meant that she did not have to share a room with anyone, but being so enclosed felt uncomfortably like being in a cage.

Growing up, her time indoors was spent in the tiny hut with the constant presence of her mother. Outdoors was the only place where she had any degree of privacy, and as soon as she had grown competent enough in her magics to look after herself, she lost few opportunities to creep away, spending days at a time in the Wilds as a wolf or panther, raven or hawk. Freedom and solitude had been one and the same.

When they camped, it was easy enough to set her tent up well away from the others, and even though most nights found her too tired from the day's march to do more than think of exploring her surroundings in animal form, simply knowing that she _could_ , if she so desired, was enough to satisfy her. Their infrequent stays at inns were as repugnant to her as they were welcomed by the rest of the group, the common rooms more than living up to their names: filled with the stench of unwashed bodies and bad ale, and crowded with unshaven men who thought lewd commentary and groping the best way to win a woman to their bed. The rooms were tiny and the beds were either too soft for one accustomed to sleeping on the ground or infested with bugs...or both.

She turned, her glower falling upon the bed currently in question, which had proven to be insect free but far too soft for her tastes; such coddling bred weakness. And this room...it really did resemble a cell: the stone walls bare of any adornment and a small table beside the bed the only furnishing. The only good thing to be said about her present accommodations is that she was finally away from the prying, knowing stares of her companions...and that fool of a Warden.

She spun back to the window, gritting her teeth. That Talia had been witness to her disgusting display of weakness among the elves had been bad enough; she, at least, had made no reference to it in either word, look or deed, and Morrigan was – for once – gratified by Sten's continued indifference. Either response – or even the Chantry wench's glower – were preferable to the compassion she'd seen in the eyes of that meddlesome old woman or the near constant smirk that played about the elf's mouth (he did have the good sense to stop at smirking; it would take little at this point for her to decide that the uproar that would result from her reducing him to a pile of char was worth it). And Alistair...

For the most part, things between them had returned to normal; she had taken great pains to make it so, despite the knowledge that the odd sort of honesty that passed between them in those few days could be exploited to more easily achieve her ultimate goal. She couldn't do it, couldn't bring herself to feign even a shadow of the dependence on him that had been forced upon her while she had been under the sway of the curse. But of course, the great oaf found a way to do so, anyway, springing to her defense when she had been knocked down by an ogre in the midst of battle a few days earlier.

It was ridiculous! She hadn't _needed_ to be rescued; she'd simply been caught by surprise, but before she could unleash a wall of flame on the lumbering beast, _he_ had been there, interposing himself between her and it with the idiotic brashness that he seemed to be picking up from their fearless leader. To be sure, he was far from an incompetent fighter (though that was not an opinion that she planned on ever sharing with him...or anyone else, for that matter), but he'd still managed to get his shield arm broken before his blade found the darkspawn's heart.

Damn him. She _hated_ healing. Hated the way that it linked her life, the core of her being, to that of her target. No thoughts were shared, nor even emotions: simply a sense of _being_ , a connection that made her want to pull away and run. Undoubtedly, the sweetness-and-light Circle mage delighted in that feeling of connection; Morrigan wanted none of it, but she paid her debts, and she already owed him considerably more than she wanted to think about. Not for _this_ , though, and she had made quite certain to tell him that at some length before mending the break. She hoped that her harangue had covered her discomfort at how unnervingly _familiar_ his presence felt. Hardly surprising when his magics had been used so often to sustain her in the nearly three days it had taken Talia to break the curse, but that made it no more welcome, all the more so because there had been a look on his face that made her wonder if he could feel the connection, as well. Normally, the subjects of healing were not aware of the link, unless they were mages, as well, but perhaps his templar abilities meant that he was more sensitive, or perhaps...

Muttering an oath, she reached out, her fingers finding the latch and swinging the window wide as her form blurred. She would dwell on this no longer, nor would she permit herself to be confined by the walls of men. Fur would offer sufficient protection against the cold; she needed no other. The great wolf paused for a moment on the window ledge, golden eyes surveying the empty courtyard. Her head lifted in a defiant howl, and she was out the window in a single leap, loping away into the gloaming.

* * *

"Maker's breath!" The woman stirring the massive iron pot jumped at the howl, sending a splash of stew to land on the flaming logs beneath with a hiss, but Mikhael Dryden didn't even raise his head.

"Not sure I want to know what you've been fighting," the smith grunted, studying the battered armor by the light of the great fireplace in the main hall.

"Oh, pretty much everything," Alistair replied, rubbing his sword arm with an exaggerated grimace, one eyebrow quirking as his gaze met Talia's.

She nodded, then shrugged. There were wolves in these mountains, but the single howl was most likely made by Morrigan. The witch was free to do what she wanted, however, and even if she weren't, she probably would anyway.

"Can you repair it?" she asked Mikhael worriedly. They had been making do with cobbled repairs for far too long; the side trip to Soldiers' Peak had been as necessary as it was welcome. Weapons and armor were in need of a skilled hand before they headed into the unknown quantity of Orzammar, and a night or two indoors was definitely not to be turned down. Fall was advancing steadily toward winter, and the closer to the Frostback Mountain pass they got, the lower the temperatures dropped, especially at night. They'd encountered their first snow two days earlier, as they worked their way through the mountain trails and tunnels that lead to the Peak. There would be more - likely much more - once they entered the Frostbacks.

"I can," the smith replied with his usual taciturnity. "And if you give me a bit of time, I can work the dragonscale you brought me into a set of dragonbone plate."

Talia shook her head. "That is to be made into leather armor for Leliana and Zevran," she said firmly.

Dryden nodded, not bothering to ask why. "My oldest son is skilled in leatherworking," he replied. "He can see to that while I work on the repairs. We've lyrium, too, if you want Feddic's boy to work any new runes into the metal."

"That would definitely be a good idea," Alistair agreed, then looked a bit sheepish. "Sorry for bringing the extra mouths along; we didn't realize they were following us until we were nearly here...though I'm not sure why we were surprised."

Mikhael made a dismissive sound. "Near the lot of you is likely the safest place to be these days; can't fault them for that. And the boy is damn talented." The smith had reached a deal with the dwarven trader that traded Sandal's enchanting skills for coin and overwintering privileges at the keep; considering that Bodahn had escaped from prison in Orzammar, Talia hadn't really expected the dwarf to follow them there. "It's almost enough to make up for his father's constant yammering." His eyes, as blue as Levi's, but flat where his brother's twinkled, stared past the Wardens to where Bodahn lounged before the smaller fireplace in the lower half of the room, talking animatedly with Levi. "Almost."

Then he shrugged, turning back to the armor. "At least it gives Levi someone else who likes to talk, so I don't have to. I'll get started on these first thing in the morning."

* * *

The hunter moved with stealth, eyes fixed upon its target as it inched ever closer, muscles coiling in preparation for the leap that would claim its prize. Sten watched with solemn approval, admiring the hunter's strength and grace, its -

"What are you doing?" The bard's voice sounded beside him, edged with curiosity. A moment later, she entered his field of vision just as the hunter sprang. "Oh, how cute!"

"Cute?" Sten scowled at her.

"Yes, cute," she told him smugly. "Playing with a kitten like that. I knew you were just a big softie!"

"I am a soldier of the Beresaad," he replied stiffly. "I am not a - softie." The word was unfamiliar, but the connotations seemed clear enough. "I was not playing with it," he added, dangling the bit of bright red yarn and watching the young feline gather itself and leap an impressive distance into the air, snagging the yarn with a paw. He allowed it to draw his hand down, then lifted the yarn out of reach again. "I am helping it to train."

"Of course." She crossed her arms, watching him with an annoying twinkle in her eye. "And the flowers that I saw you picking when we were in the Brecilian Forest?"

He stared at her, uncomprehending, until his memory supplied him with the moment she was referring to. "They were medicinal." The Circle mage had asked him to gather them to assist in healing the witch. It had seemed a proper thing to do for a comrade-in-arms, even if he would have felt little regret at seeing the witch succumb to her injuries. Wynne, at least, displayed a healthy respect for the magic that she channeled, and her advanced years indicated that she had mastered its dangers. He had expressed this to her once, and still did not understand why it had not been well received.

"And the fact that they were such a lovely shade of lavender had noting to do with it?" She cocked her head, eying him challengingly. "There's nothing wrong with liking pretty things, Sten. You like your paintings, yes?"

"A painting is the result of discipline," he replied, wondering why he was bothering to explain himself. If she were not so highly valued by his _kadan_ , he would have simply carried her to the broom closet and locked her in. "Each stroke of the brush is the result of years of training, as a warrior trains to wield a sword as part of himself. Your music required a similar discipline and training to learn, did it not?" Though he did not care for most of the tunes that she favored, he could nonetheless appreciate the skill required to draw the complex notes from a lute or harp, and the memory needed to recall the words to dozens of songs and tales.

"Of course it did!" She seemed almost offended by the question, which had seemed a reasonable one. "I spent many years learning how to play and sing, because I loved music, not simply to further my career as a bard!"

"I made no statement regarding your reasons for learning," he replied, wondering if every female in Ferelden besides the _kadan_ was afflicted with this curse of hearing things that had never been spoken. "Merely that you had. It required time, effort. Such things are worthy of appreciation. Flowers grow on their own, whether I pick them or not; it requires no effort to make them do so."

"Ah, but you would not say this if you could see some of the gardens of Val Royeaux!" Her mood shifted with typical abruptness. "I know one gentleman who had dozens of tiny trees; he spent hours each day tending them, training them to grow just as he wished them to."

"How does one train trees?" Perhaps they were like the sylvans of the Brecilian Forest?

"By pruning them, trimming them, wiring the branches so that they grow just so. None of them is more than a foot high, yet they resemble full sized trees, and no two ever look alike."

He was silent for a moment, considering. "Such an effort would be worthy of notice," he said at last, adding another item to the list of things to be preserved after the inevitable Qunari conquest of these lands. It was - unsurprisingly - a short list.

"So glad you approve." Her tone had changed again, and after a moment, he was able to identify it as 'sarcasm'. "And do they have qunari bards?"

"Why would they not?"

She shrugged. "You just do not seem like a very musical people to me."

"You base this upon me?" He frowned at her. "I am a soldier. The Beresaad does not do battle with lutes. Drawing such a comparison makes no more sense than if I were to decide that all Orlesians have orange hair and enjoy music, simply because you possess these traits."

"My hair is _red_ , not orange!" she protested, her voice growing heated again.

"The actual color is closer to -"

"It is _red_!" She glared at him, then spun and marched away, declaring, "You are just mad because I found out that you're a big softie!"

"I am not -" He brought his teeth together, grinding off his words, and glanced down at the young feline, who was climbing his leg to reach the yarn in his hand. "I hate humans," he muttered, settling onto a wobbly stool to resume the training.

* * *

"Is the painted elf not feeling well?"

Zevran took a swallow from his tankard of ale and glanced up at the golem quizzically. "I am feeling fine, my large friend. Why the concern?"

"I simply noticed that there are a large number of females here, yet it makes no attempt to convince them to couple with it. That is nearly unprecedented."

The elf chuckled, draining the mug and offering a warm smile to Levi's youngest sister as she approached to offer a refill. He waited for her to leave before replying.

"Time and place are everything. All of these lovely ladies have fathers, brothers, husbands here. This is a large clan, and very closely knit. Were I to incur the wrath of one, all the others would likely follow suit." The five among Levi's siblings and cousins who were married had between them close to thirty children, ranging from Mikhael's eldest, a broad shouldered young man of twenty five, to an infant that could not have been more than a month out of the womb...and two of the women had bellies rounded with pregnancy. Truth be told (not that he intended to, mind you), he wasn't certain they would be able to work him into the schedule.

"I see." The glowing eyes regarded him for a long moment, the thoughts behind the stone features impossible to discern. "So, it fears these traders? Not an impressive trait in an assassin, I should think?"

"Fear? No." Zevran leaned back in his chair, his eyes shifting between the small clusters of conversation that had formed: Talia, Alistair and the smith were hovering over their battered armor; Wynne sat at the large table with the Dryden wives, holding a small child contentedly on her lap as she examined skeins of brightly dyed wool yarn with interest. Levi and Bodahn sat talking before the lower fireplace, while Sandal played with the younger Dryden children in the middle of the floor, Brego sprawled out at his side. As though sensing his scrutiny, the dwarven lad turned his head, his eyes meeting Zevran's for a moment before giving the elf a smile, sunny and artless.

The assassin found himself smiling back, the expression very different from the one he had used on the pretty girl. No, nothing to fear here, which was likely why it felt so strange. "There is a saying in Antiva: Do not make your toilet and your bed in the same place." Actually, the most common version of the phrase was, _Don't shit where you sleep,_ but Zevran thought his own wording vastly superior. "These folk are true allies to the Wardens: a relatively rare commodity. I have little doubt that I could escape any wrath that I might incur - and in case you ever find yourself in the situation: if you have to choose between having a husband or a father angry with you...choose the husband. They will give up the chase _much_ sooner."

"Interesting," Shale responded, "if as useless to me as the flimsy pieces of cloth that the rest of you use to cover your squishy parts."

"The level of squishiness is highly variable, given time and the right company," the elf replied with a wink, "but come to think of it, said parts usually aren't covered at such moments...but I digress."

"Badly," the golem opined flatly. "I was forced to observe many couplings while I was immobilized in that horrid little village. I have no interest in hearing about still more; it was, in fact, about to explain to me why it is indulging in a rare bout of self restraint."

"Indeed, I was," Zevran agreed, "but if you do not understand the pleasure of the act itself, you will not be able to truly appreciate the heroism of my restraint. I feel for you, my sturdy friend: unable to partake in the pleasures of the flesh, to know love to its fullest..."

"Unable to age or bleed, or to become sick or to die," Shale finished as he trailed off. "Without doubt a tragedy of epic proportions, yet it will pale in comparison to its own fate if it does not either return to the question that it is plainly attempting to avoid or leave me in peace."

"Fine." He rolled his eyes and shifted in his chair until he was facing the golem, deciding not to mention that it was Shale who had initiated the conversation. "As I said, I am confident that I would be able to escape, should my affections be poorly received by the relatives of these lovely ladies...or gentlemen," he added, though in truth, the men of the Dryden clan were not to his taste. With women, he was content to enjoy the wondrous variety that the Maker had provided, but a male had to be exotic, with a healthy hint of danger, to arouse his interest. "It is likely, however, that their displeasure would then be extended to those I travel with, putting the Wardens in an awkward situation. This would be unwise of me, considering that I live only by Talia's continued benevolence."

"So it restrains itself in the interest of self preservation?" The massive stone head nodded slowly. "A most wise decision, considering that I am still not certain why the Warden spared it. Had the decision been mine, its skull would be so much pulp right now."

"Oh, come now!" Zevran feigned a wounded expression. "How could you destroy something as pretty as I am, hmm?"

"A shiny gem is pretty," Shale corrected him. "You are simply squishy, but regardless, I fail to see how any measure of attractiveness would make one difficult to crush."

"Perhaps you simply do not know how to look, then?" the Antivan suggested, gesturing to where Talia stood, her features illuminated by the light of the dancing flames. "Take a long look at our leader, my stony friend. Surely something of such beauty is worth preserving?"

"If I did not consider the Warden to be of some worth, I would have crushed it long ago, but its appearance had nothing to do with my decision." The eyes were on him again, brighter now. "Nor do I think it has a great deal to do with the painted elf's decision."

"Perhaps, perhaps not," he replied smoothly. The golem had learned more of human nature in its years in Honnleath than it let on. "Friendship is a new experience to me, and I cannot define it easily in the terms that I know. Suffice it to say that I find her pleasing to the eye, and would not object were she to trip and fall into my tent one night."

"No, it would not object," Shale agreed with the odd, grating noise that passed for laughter. "It would be far too busy trying to avoid the blades of the sister!"

"Perhaps you are right," Zevran conceded, giving no hint of his satisfaction at having drawn his inquisitor off track. Now, to see what he could learn from the golem's unique point of view. "Perhaps I should set my sights on a less hazardous target. What is your opinion of our dear witch?"

* * *

"It's glad I was to see you arrive, Warden," Levi offered with a smile as Talia and Alistair approached, having been dismissed by Mikhael with his usual brusqueness. "I'd begun to think we'd know aught of you but what the rumors told until the spring thaw."

"And what, exactly, do the 'rumors' tell?" Alistair wanted to know, one eyebrow quirking as he glanced at Bodahn.

"Well, that depends largely upon who you're talking to," the dwarf replied, seemingly unaffected by the pointed gaze. "You're either Ferelden's last hope or the murderers of King Cailan." Seeing the near-identical expressions on the faces of the two Wardens, he hastened to add, "More of the former than the latter, especially now that Ter- that Loghain has gotten so heavy handed."

"What's he doing now?" Talia asked as they settled to the rugs that covered the floor in front of the fireplace.

"What he's _not_ doing would likely be easier to answer," Bodahn said, shaking his head. "It seems he's gotten it into his head that he can force the nobles into line behind him. I've heard of his troops attacking bannorns and arlings, nobles who stand against him vanishing...there's even a rumor that he tried to have Arl Eamon poisoned."

"Shocking," Alistair murmured. The trader was a good enough man, but his fondness for rumors and gossip was a double edged blade that they did not allow themselves to forget. Perhaps realizing that what he didn't know he couldn't be forced to reveal, he never pressed them for any details of their activities, and they shared little.

"Aye. Hard to believe that it's the same man who was the Hero of River Dane," the dwarf agreed grimly. "He's king in all but name now; Anora is hardly ever seen, and Rendon Howe is so close that rumor has him wiping Loghain's arse after he shits."

"That would at least be a proper use for his talents," Talia replied bleakly.

"True enough. There's no love lost for the man among the nobles, from what I've heard. Ever since the Teyrn of Highever and the Arl of Denerim both met with shady ends, no one trusts him, but no one wants to cross him, either...at least, not openly."

"Not so openly, though?" The key to Bodahn was patience. He relished passing on the news that he gleaned on the road, and had a fair knack for separating the kernels of truth from the chaff, but he loved to tell his stories, and it was hard to rush him. All you could do was channel him with the occasional question.

He smiled thinly beneath his mustache. "Let's just say that he and Loghain are doing almost as good a job of uniting Ferelden as the pair of you, though not in the way they'd like. What started out as pockets of defiance has grown into an organized rebellion: there's an army of several hundred that's been raising all sorts of havoc in the Bannorn the last few weeks, and I've heard that they've got quite an assortment: freemen, men at arms of the Banns and Arls that Loghain has put down, apostate mages - I heard tell that quite a few got loose during that nasty business at the Circle - elves, even a few dozen of the Chasind." His smile broadened. "I even heard one rumor that the rebels are being _led_ by a Chasind, if you can believe that!"

"I'm not sure I do." Alistair's expression was openly skeptical, a sentiment that Talia shared. "I know the Chasind would have been driven out of the Wilds by the Blight, but I can't see Fereldans following one into battle."

The dwarf shrugged. "That's what I've heard on the road, anyway. Take it for what it's worth. The rebels are real, though, no matter who's leading them, and they've been keeping Loghain's forces hopping from one end of the Bannorn to the other." Eyes as brown as new turned earth gleamed with the knowledge that would remain unspoken: the focus on the rebellion had likely kept Loghain and Howe from any harder pursuit of the two Grey Wardens.

Talia nodded in acknowledgment. "I wonder if he has any idea what we're doing?" she mused. If he did, it seemed to her that it would have been a comparatively small matter to set up more ambushes on the limited routes they had to reach their prospective allies, but there had been nothing since Zevran's attempt, even after the near disaster of her encounter with Howe in Denerim.

Bodahn shook his head. "From everything I've heard, it sounds like he's seeing Orlesians behind every tree and outhouse, though."

"That's ridiculous," Leliana scoffed as she joined them, sinking to the floor beside Talia and resting her head on the Warden's shoulder. "No self-respecting Orlesian spy would be caught dead skulking around an outhouse."

He chuckled. "Be that as it may, I've spoken to more than one who has heard him claim that the Wardens are nothing more than Orlesian puppets. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say that he thinks that you're stirring things up to make it easier for them to come in and take over."

"Now _that's_ ridiculous," Talia replied, perversely irritated at the idea, however much it might have benefited them. "And stupid, to boot. It wouldn't be hard to find out about the treaties; Eamon had a book on the Fereldan Wardens in his library that mentioned them; Cailan probably had one, as well." _This_ was the man whose military skill had helped to free Ferelden?

"Cailan wasn't much for reading," Alistair said wryly, "but Maric would undoubtedly have had a book - books, more likely - that mentioned the treaties. I doubt Loghain considers us much of a threat, compared to an uprising in the Bannorn, though." He quirked a grin at Talia. "Whoever's leading those rebels, I think I'm going to buy him a drink when this is all over."


	39. Interlude: The Steel Wolf

_"The scouts have returned, Gan'Chinua."_

Fergus lifted his eyes from the map that lay on the table before him. _"Any problems?"_ he asked, the harsh syllables of the Chasind tongue falling easily from his lips. He'd always been good with languages; in private, he and Oriana had frequently conversed entirely in Antivan -

_Don't._

His mind turned him away from that line of thought as instinctively as a horse approaching a jump that had felled it on the last attempt. Sooner or later, he was going to have to dig in the spurs and force himself to go forward on that path, but for now, he had more than enough in need of his attention. He closed his right hand, running his fingers over the scar that crossed the palm. His right hand, signifying that the blood vow was one that would be ended only with the death of Rendon Howe.

The man who stood just inside the tent bore an identical scar, one of many that crisscrossed his hand, but the only one for which a vow remained unfulfilled. If Fergus died before killing Howe, Temulun would carry on the vendetta until his own death, or Howe's. The Chasind had become his blood brother and the Otter Clan his family: until a few weeks ago, the only family he'd thought left to him.

"Have the mages, scouts and squad leaders meet in the strategy tent in ten minutes, please," he said, deliberately switching to Fereldan.

Temulun nodded. "Consider it done," he replied with a crooked grin, his accent heavy but the words understandable.

Fergus' answering smile faded once he was alone again, his gaze returning to the map, a finger tracing the roads that tied Ferelden together.

_Where are you, little sister?_

He'd not even allowed himself to hope when the first rumors had reached his ears: one of the Grey Wardens so highly sought by Loghain named herself a Cousland. His heart had been dead in his chest since he had emerged from the Korcari Wilds with Temulun and the few other remnants of the Otter Clan, recovered at last from the injury and fever that had nearly killed him, only to discover that he had no home to return to, no family waiting for him. The survivors that he encountered all told the same tale: Rendon Howe's men had spared no one. His parents, his sister, Oriana, his sweet son...all gone, their murders brushed aside as just punishment for a treason that Fergus knew to be a lie. His father had known the oppression of Orlesian rule, had fought to free Ferelden. He would never have conspired to return them to power.

And if that was a lie, what of the other justifications that Loghain and Howe used for their growing tyranny? Grey Wardens as Orlesian pawns? King Cailan dead at their hands? The Blight no more than a specious excuse for an invasion? It was either madness or carefully calculated deception; either way, Fergus knew that traveling to Denerim to openly protest his family's innocence and demand justice would end with his neck beneath a headsman's axe.

He'd almost gone anyway, just on the chance that he could spill Rendon Howe's guts onto the flagstones before the guards overwhelmed him, but in the end, the duty that had been drilled into him since childhood had taken hold. He was the Teyrn of Highever, and losing his life in pursuit of vengeance would neither disprove the lies that Howe had spread about his family nor free the people of Highever from the rule of the usurper.

Just how he was supposed to accomplish either of those ends, aided by just under a score of Chasind warriors and the apprentice to the clan's now-dead shaman, plus a handful of women and children, was something that he had not easily envisioned. He looked more like a Wilder now than a Fereldan nobleman: his hair was long and sporting braids into which a few feathers and brightly colored beads of carved bone and wood had been worked, chronicling his limited deeds among his adopted clan; when not in armor, he wore the traditional leather leggings, loincloth and open vest of the Wilders, and his face was painted with the markings of the Otter Clan: sweeping blue lines from his temples across his cheeks and down to his chin, and a single, bold stroke down the bridge of his nose, with a crimson slash across his forehead: the mark of a blood oath unfulfilled.

It had been easier, less painful, to immerse himself in this new identity, to let them call him Gan'Chinua, the Steel Wolf, for his armor and weapons, and the ferocity with which he fought. Tempting to follow the remnants of the other clans, decimated and driven from the Korcari Wilds by the darkspawn horde, even though there was no place for them to go. Instead, he had turned north, to the Bannorn. Temulun had followed him, would do so until their respective blood oaths were fulfilled, and the rest of the clan followed Temulun.

Normally, a Chasind clan was led by its shaman, but Jamukha had lost his life in an attack by the darkspawn, and Chagatai, his apprentice, was an inexperienced youth who had not yet seen his twentieth year, and who had only a handful of minor spells at his command. Temulun was the most skilled of the surviving warriors, and it was to him that the Otter Clan looked now. Fergus' station was less clearly defined, but he had developed a careful balance with his blood brother, in which Temulun deferred to his experience in the lands of the north while still commanding their clan. In the lands of the Bannorn, they found a steadily growing number of men who were disaffected with Loghain's heavy handed attempts at bringing the nobility under control and suppressing any questions of his version of what had transpired at Ostagar. Few of the Arls and Banns resisted openly, but Fergus found no shortage of younger sons leading contingencies of their fathers' guards and sworn freemen, and harrying Loghain's forces, disguised (albeit barely, in some cases) as bandits.

He'd been gratified to hear that few believed Howe's accusations of treason, and surprised when he found himself increasingly deferred to as the leader of the ragtag group of rebels. Now, more than ever, he found himself glad of the time he'd spent training with the guard and listening to his father and Howe talk about their experiences in the war against Orlais, how the hit-and-run tactics of smaller, highly mobile units who were familiar with the terrain had been used to good effect against the better equipped but highly regimented Orlesian army. Kill the officers at the outset, Bryce Cousland had said, and you threw the enlisted men into disarray.

Thirty years later, it seemed that Loghain had forgotten the strategies that had won that war. The units out of Denerim were highly disciplined and skilled in traditional melee tactics, but ambushes, night raids and sabotage by small groups that struck and withdrew into the countryside left them floundering. They would rush reinforcements into position, only to have the rebels attack the area they had taken the reinforcements from, making off with supplies and food that could not be easily replaced.

Fergus used these depredations as much as possible to provision his forces; with the Blight spreading across the south of Ferelden, the flood of refugees and countless fields destroyed before they could be harvested meant that food was already scarce, and it was likely to get worse. The most recent arrivals from the West Hills reported that Arling to be completely overrun with darkspawn, and Arl Wulf fled to Denerim after losing both his sons in the fight.

Time had been fast pressing him into a hard decision: continue to resist the rule of one that he believed complicit in the murder of his family and the death of his King, or concede a truce to present a united front against the darkspawn, since Loghain seemed determined to bring the Bannorn to heel before he even attempted to deal with what he still reportedly claimed was no Blight. And then, he had begun to encounter recruits and refugees who had seen the lone pair of Grey Wardens who had survived Ostagar.

He'd known of their existence, of course; from the bounties on their heads, it seemed that Loghain considered them to be a greater threat than the darkspawn, but the descriptions had mentioned only a man and a woman, traveling in the company of an Orlesian spy, a maleficar, a qunari, a rogue Circle mage, and an Antivan assassin. From the wanted posters, one would think they were wandering the countryside in search of babes to devour; he'd known that was rubbish, but when he began speaking to those who had actually met them...

The description matched, and even if the grim young woman they spoke of bore little resemblance to the laughing little sister who had delighted in those times she could best him in the practice ring, she was using her own name. And the presence of the mabari sealed it; Brego would have gone with no other. Their father had told him of Duncan's interest in her, as well as his refusal, but obviously, matters had changed when Howe's men had overwhelmed the near-defenseless keep.

Joy and fear filled him in near equal measures, along with an empathy that made his heart ache. She had to think them all dead, and he knew well enough how deeply that sorrow cut. The urge to set out in search of her was all but overwhelming, but whatever they were doing, they stayed on the move, and he had absolutely no way to predict their movements. He had reports of them in Lothering; in Honnleath; in Redcliffe (where reports had them bringing Arl Eamon back from death's door with nothing less than the Ashes of Andraste); here and there in the Bannorn, fighting darkspawn and bandits, in Denerim, where she had reportedly come within a hair of killing Rendon Howe; the Circle Tower; the Brecilian forest...

He had no idea where she would be next, no chance of intercepting her, but she had to be on Grey Warden business, and despite Loghain's accusations, he doubted that it had anything to do with Orlais. Rumors had the Circle mages aligning themselves with the Wardens, and the templars permitting it, and there had been word that the Dalish were gathering in the south. Somehow, she and her companions were gathering allies against the Blight, as Grey Wardens had always done. His little sister...

He'd shifted his tactics. Despite wanting desperately for her to know that he lived, he realized that it was more important than ever to keep his survival hidden from Loghain. If the regent knew that a Cousland led the rebellion in the Bannorn, Talia would become an even more sought after target, as a hostage to his surrender. Fergus was a firm believer in the old stories: the Grey Wardens were the only ones who could slay an archdemon and end a Blight. He had to buy his sister the time to do what she needed to do, and at the same time, fight the lies that Loghain was spreading.

He maintained his appearance of a Wilder, and was called by his Chasind name, even by those who had known him from childhood. While they still harried Loghain's forces, depriving them of needed food and supplies as winter descended, they had also begun to lead sorties against the encroaching darkspawn, coming to the aid of those trying desperately to escape the Blight, and to their customary war cry, "For Ferelden!", they added a second, "For the Grey Wardens!"

It was little enough, and far less than what his brotherly instinct was demanding of him, but they had both been schooled in duty, and right now, that duty was taking them in different directions.

He glanced up at the sky as he left the tent; the clouds overhead were low, flat and grey. Mornings found the world coated in a shimmering layer of frost; the first snows could not be far behind. Hopefully, Loghain would do the sane thing, and withdraw his troops back to Denerim for the winter months, but regardless, Fergus was going to have to get his own forces fortified and dug in before the worst of the weather descended. Perhaps he could conduct some limited raids with the Chasind, if it became necessary; they were accustomed to the brutal winters of the Korcari Wilds, after all -

"Looking for divine guidance? You're more likely to get an eyeful of bird crap."

"Not too many birds flying right now," Fergus replied, falling into step beside the two mages as they made their way toward the large tent in the center of the encampment.

"True," Anders conceded, "but you never know. The archdemon could be flying overhead, just above those clouds, and hearing nature's call. Now _that_ would be a big pile of -"

"That's disgusting." Sketch looked up at the taller man, his lips pursed in reproof. "And if the archdemon were that close, we'd be hip deep in darkspawn." He looked around quickly as he spoke, as though fearful that even mentioning darkspawn would make them appear.

They were an oddly matched pair. The human was irreverent, robust and outgoing, with an incorrigible eye for the ladies that was, as he lost few chances to point out, sadly underused in his present environment; the elf was slim, bookish and nervous, his forehead perpetually creased with worry when he wasn't absorbed in the doodlings that had earned him his name. Yet somehow, they got along, bound by their shared distaste for the Chantry and templars that had kept them both in captivity for much of their lives.

It struck Fergus as more than a bit ironic that, with all the proper Chantry doctrine he'd learned while growing up, he now found himself allied with a pair of apostate mages. Three, if he counted Chagatai. It had been an eye-opening experience. Neither Anders nor Sketch were maleficar or evil in any way, and they both seemed to have full control over their magic, which negated two of the most oft-cited reasons for the 'necessity' of keeping mages under the control of the Chantry and the supervision of the templars. Chagatai claimed that Chasind magic was a gift from the spirits, but while that likely would have lifted Mother Mallol's eyebrows clear off her forehead, Fergus himself could discern little difference between Chasind and Circle-taught magic; the three mages had even learned spells from each other in their time together.

"So, are we really planning on keeping this up through the winter?" Anders wanted to know. "Because if we are, I'm switching to trousers. Wading through snow in robes does not sound appealing. One of the reasons I never tried escaping from the tower in the winter. That and the tracks, of course."

"We won't if we don't have to," Fergus replied, "but there have been rumors that Loghain is planning to starve out some of the more recalcitrant Banns. If he does, we may have to break a blockade or three, but I'd pay good money to see you hopping through snowbanks in your robe."

"And what good is gold going to do me out here, I ask you?" Anders demanded, gesturing at the surrounding tents and the stark, grey granite of the cliff walls surrounding the gorge that concealed their camp. "No tavern to buy a pretty girl a drink...not even any pretty girls, except those with brothers who will cut your lips off just for saying hello."

"What can I say, my friend? The Chasind are old-fashioned." Temulun's younger sister had escaped with the remnants of their clan, along with a few other unwed females, but courtships within the Chasind were conducted only with the approval and under the watchful eye of a woman's closest male relative, and any dalliances were strictly forbidden, as Anders had quickly discovered. Traditionally, even staring for too long at a Chasind woman to whom you were not wed was considered offensive, but Temulun had relaxed that stance somewhat, as long as no propositions or attempts at touching were made.

For his part, Fergus had made certain that the Fereldan recruits toed the line. He had executed one man, a rather seedy looking fellow who had been vague about his past, for attempted rape, and the alacrity with which the sentence had been passed and carried out had been sufficient to discourage any others from making the same mistake.

"If you want to pay proper court to Bayatei, I'd be more than happy to act as your second in negotiating the bride price and dowry." Fergus had been thankful that Chasind custom forbade him from taking another wife until he had avenged Oriana's death; normally, a marriage to Temulun's sister would have been used to cement his ties to the Otter Clan, but even the thought was like salt in a wound that had barely begun to heal.

"Me? Married?" Anders' incredulity was only partly feigned. "Think of all the women who would prostrate themselves with grief. I couldn't possibly deprive them...or myself, for that matter."

"You'd get deprived of a lot more if Temulun caught you stepping out on his sister," Sketch smirked.

"Precisely why I intend to remain a bachelor," Anders pronounced smugly. "Just consider it my contribution to the greater good...along with my own good, of course."

"Duly noted," Fergus replied with a roll of his eyes. The mage's incessant levity could get tiresome, but most of the time, it was a welcome anodyne to the grimness of their situation.

They ducked into the tent, which was empty save for a large table that had been cobbled together out of a broken wagon. Maps and parchment covered all the visible surface area. Standing around it were the leaders of each of his twelve combat squads, along with the four scouts that had gone out two days earlier: Chagatai and two other Chasind, still looking uncomfortable in their tunics and trews, plus a young freeholder from the Dragon's Peak area who was skilled at hunting and tracking, and knew the area well.

While the Wilders excelled at moving unseen through most terrain, Fergus had considered it prudent to have them garbed as Fereldans, on the off chance that they were spotted, though the fact that they had outright refused to part with the braids and adornments in their long hair made it a bit like painting a peacock's body white and trying to pass it off as a chicken. Still, the deception would likely hold at a distance, and it was rare for anyone to get close to a Chasind if they did not wish it. He could sympathize with their discomfort, though; after close to a year wearing loincloth and leggings, the notion of unfastening and dropping trousers to take a piss seemed highly impractical.

"What news?" he asked.

The freeholder, Aedric Barnes, stepped up to the table. "Supply train coming along the West Road," he said, his finger tracing a point on the road to the southwest of their position. "Ten full wagons, look to be loaded with grain and barrels of pickled fish and eggs. The guards wear Gwaren's colors."

Not surprising, since Gwaren was Loghain's Teyrnir. "How many?"

"Twenty, give or take a few, plus the drovers," Aedric replied. "Can't tell yet whether they're bound for Denerim or elsewhere."

"With that much food, it's likely Denerim," Fergus reasoned. Which meant that they couldn't touch it. Food was reported to be scarce in the capitol city, and they would gain no allies by taking meals from hungry children, "but I'll wager some of it will be leaving Denerim to go to the troops in the field before long."

"More guards on fewer wagons then," Temulun opined, meaning that he thought they should take the full prize before it reached its destination. To him and the other Chasind, war was war, and you struck at your foe when and how you were able.

"We'll have to chance that, and decide then if it's worth the risk," Fergus replied. "Loghain and Howe are the enemy, not the people of Denerim." His blood-brother accepted this with a silent nod and no sign of resentment. In the Wilds, he had expected and gotten unquestioning obedience from the young noble as he taught him the ways of the Chasind, and he gave the same courtesy to Fergus, now that they were in his world. "How many days until they reach Denerim?"

"Three, maybe four at the rate they're traveling," Aedric said after a moment's thought.

"Good. Rest up overnight, then resupply and stay with them until they're through the gates; send word if they -" He broke off, cocking his head to listen: distant shouts, growing rapidly closer, but no sounds of combat.

There was no need for words; every man's hand went to his weapon, following Fergus as he strode from the tent. A small cluster of men was making its way down the slope into the ravine, with a lone, armored figure being jostled in their midst, a cloak wrapped around his face to obscure his vision.

"What's going on?" Fergus demanded as they drew close.

"This fool's been standing in the foothills, waving a white rag for hours," Godric Alfsten replied, shoving the hooded man forward, causing him to stumble to his knees. "No one else seemed to be around, so we figured we'd bring him in and let you decide what to do with him."

"I seek a parlay with the leader of the rebellion," the man announced, sounding a bit out of breath but unafraid. His voice was muffled by the heavy cloth, but it was undeniably familiar.

"Did Loghain send you?" Fergus let the harsh Chasind accent color his voice, hoping that whoever it was had not already recognized him by the few words he'd spoken earlier.

"He did not." The man remained on his knees, seemingly well aware of the bows and blades that surrounded him, but drew himself upright with notable dignity. "I am Ser Perth Ambrose, knight of Redcliffe, and I have come at the behest of Eamon Guerrin, Arl of Redcliffe."

Perth? Fergus could feel the grin wanting to spread across his face, but he warned himself to caution. "Bring him to my tent," he ordered curtly, maintaining the accent. He strode into the tent ahead of them and watched as Perth was escorted in. "Leave us."

Godric frowned. "Are you sure, ser?"

Fergus nodded. "I am." The less Perth saw, the safer it would be for all of them. "Ask Temulun to come in, please." The Chasind warrior was ducking through the tent flap before he'd finished the sentence. There was no chance that the Redcliffe knight would recognize him, and his presence should satisfy the need for caution even in the face of the closest thing to hope Fergus had encountered in weeks.

Godric left the tent, and at Fergus' nod, Temulun stepped forward and unwound the cloak from around the captured man's head, revealing red hair and features that the heir of Highever knew well. Perth blinked in the lamplight, his grey eyes falling first on Temulun in a confusion that only deepened when his gaze turned to -

"Fergus?" He blinked, staring more closely, as though trying to see past the painted face and barbarically adorned hair. "Maker's blood...is that you, Fergus Cousland?"

"It is," Fergus confirmed, his throat feeling tight as he stepped forward to envelop the knight in a bear hug. He'd spent time at Redcliffe in his youth, and had learned much from Perth and the other knights.

"You are a remarkably lively corpse, my friend," Perth pronounced as they parted, shaking his head with bemusement. "I almost didn't recognize you. You are the 'Chasind' leading the rebellion, then? There's a story behind that worth hearing, I'll wager."

"A long one," Fergus confirmed, "and best told over a mug of good ale, but the deception is necessary for the time being. You say Eamon sent you? He has recovered, then?"

Perth nodded, putting his curiosity aside and mirroring the other man's businesslike mien. "He has, thanks to -" His eyes widened suddenly. "Andraste's flaming sword, Fergus! Your sister! She's -"

"Alive. I've heard," Fergus confirmed, though his heart leaped in his chest at hearing it again. "You've seen her, Perth?"

The knight laughed. "Seen her? I've fought alongside her! She's no longer the tyke that followed you everywhere. She's a Grey Warden now, and damned good with a sword, but...she thinks you're dead, Fergus."

"I know." The knight's suddenly somber expression sent a twist of guilt through him. "But it's for her protection."

The knight listened to his explanation, nodding slowly. "Aye, it makes sense. Maker knows, there's more than one dissenter who has vanished or died suddenly, and Rendon Howe's definitely not going to be pleased to learn you're alive...Your Grace."

"Save that for after I've relieved Howe of his head and put to rest all the lies he's told about my father," Fergus said gruffly. He wanted to press Perth for every possible detail about Talia, but instead, he made himself ask,"Now, why did Eamon send you? Does he have men who wish to join us?"

"I've no doubt that many would," Perth said, "but the Arl is planning an attack on the political front. Your sister and her companions are using some very old treaties to activate Grey Warden alliances with the mages, elves and dwarves. The last message that we received said that they had secured the aid of the Circle and the Dalish, and were bound for Orzammar. Those alliances should help to give us the numbers we'll need to defeat the darkspawn, and once they're all secured, Arl Eamon intends to call a Landsmeet, to challenge Loghain's right to rule."

"Does he have another candidate in mind?" Eamon was a good man, and a skilled politician, but he was getting on in years, and if the rumors of his son being sent to the Circle for training were true -

"He does," the knight confirmed. "The other Grey Warden is a bastard son of King Maric. Eamon raised him, and I knew him as a boy. He's grown into a good man: a little green and unsure of himself, but he's got Theirin blood and Eamon's guidance. That'll be enough to win him backing from a good part of the nobles, and the Arl thinks that others will follow just because they're fed up with Loghain's tyranny. He wants to know if you and those who follow you will support him in this."

"Gladly." Relief washed through Fergus as the weight of the world seemed to lift from his shoulders. There was a viable heir to Cailan; it was no longer a choice between Loghain or the Blight. "More than gladly, my friend. You may tell the Arl that the rebellion will end the moment the son of Maric takes the throne."

"He'll welcome that news." Perth grinned at him. "I don't know how much you hear in this hideout of yours, but you've been giving Loghain and Howe fits. I wouldn't care to be crosswise with the lot of you."

"We're Fereldans, Perth," Fergus told him, "and for all of Loghain's proud words, I think he's forgotten what that really means."

"Aye," the knight agreed. "I suspect he's going to be reminded soon. Once your sister returns from Orzammar, the Arl will formally call the Landsmeet. Rumors have been running rampant about it for weeks now, so it shouldn't take long for the nobles to assemble in Denerim, and we can have this out, once and for all."

Fergus barely heard his last words. "Returns from Orzammar?" he repeated. "You mean, she'll be coming to Redcliffe?"

"That's her plan," Perth replied, his smile widening at the expression on his friend's face. "Thinking to welcome her in person, are you?"

"That I am." Fergus turned to Temulun. "Have Oswyn and Anders report to me immediately." Oswyn Sigard was the most experienced of his squad leaders; he and Anders would be able to handle matters here.

Temulun nodded, a faint smile on his lips. "I will be meeting my other sister soon, then?" he asked. "I will have the clan make ready for travel."

"Please do," Fergus told him. He'd expected nothing else from the Chasind, and would not have felt comfortable leaving them behind. Despite the discipline that he enforced, and the invaluable assistance that the Chasind had provided the rebels, there were still some among the Fereldans who considered them little more than animals, and only Temulun's trust in Fergus and control over his clan - and Fergus' rapid punishment of transgressions against the Wilders - had kept some of the more open insults from exploding into violence. "I hope the Arl won't mind having Chasind house guests."

Perth laughed. "Fergus, your sister has already sent us a bunch of people who claim they used to be werewolves! The Chasind will likely seem positively tame by comparison!"

Fergus stared at him. "You're joking."

The knight shook his head and laughed again. "You've not heard the half of it, my friend," he said, clapping Fergus on the shoulder. "Between your tales and mine, we'll have plenty to talk about on the trip back to Redcliffe."


	40. Orzammar and Politics

"Have I mentioned how much I don't like this?" Alistair asked as the group settled around a large table in Tapsters Tavern, as far away from the other patrons as they could manage.

"Only half a dozen times or so," Talia replied mildly. "Did you want to just get it all out of your system now?"

"Gladly," he shot back. "I don't like this, I don't like this, I do _not_ like this, not one bit."

"What's not to like?" Zevran inquired, tipping his chair back on two legs with a lazy smile. "Intrigue, politics, blood running in the streets. All the comforts of home."

"You have the chance to influence the succession," Morrigan put in. "To place a king on the throne who will then be indebted to the Grey Wardens. The benefits of such a situation could extend far beyond the Blight."

"Yes, I should have known you'd see it that way," Alistair replied, rolling his eyes. "The notion that picking a king who will benefit us, rather than his own people, is _wrong_ would never occur to you, would it?"

"At the moment, the two interests coincide, since if they do not cease this foolish squabbling and focus their collective attention upon the Blight, they will find themselves awash in darkspawn," the witch observed. "If they wish to assassinate our choice and pick up where they left off after, they will be free to do so."

"She's right, Alistair," Talia said. "We really don't have a choice. The dwarves know more than any other race about fighting darkspawn. We need them, which means that we need to get a king on the throne." She fell silent as the waitress approached, her eyes warning the others to hold their tongues, as well.

"What'll you have?" She was a typical dwarven female: short and compactly built, but undeniably feminine, with generous curves at the hips and breasts that were displayed to good effect by the cut of her dress, and curly red hair falling well down her back.

"What's good?" Talia wanted to know.

"Everything," the girl replied in the manner of one stating a known fact. "We've got fifty-two types of ale, seventeen types of mead, and a dozen imported wines." She gave Alistair a boldly appraising look. "If you don't find something that you like, just let me know. I'd be happy to assist."

He blushed to the roots of his hair, and Zevran chuckled, giving the girl a charming smile as he said, "Whatever you would recommend, _bella_. We place ourselves at your tender mercies."

"Valenta's Red all around, then?" she suggested brightly. "It's known as the Paragon of ales for good reason."

"Water," Sten spoke up curtly, his nostrils flaring in distaste. "I have no desire to participate in a mass poisoning."

"And I would prefer a mead," Morrigan added with a disdainful glance around at the tavern's other patrons, "assuming that you have one that is at least palatable."

"I would like wine, please," Wynne put in. "Something red, and not too dry."

"The ale is fine for me," Talia said.

"You might want to be careful," Leliana cautioned her, "I once drank a thimble of dwarven ale. Woke up a week later in Jader wearing nothing but my shoes and a towel."

"Really?" Talia cast her a sideways glance, a sly smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Bring her a double, then."

Leliana giggled, Alistair guffawed, Morrigan made a disgusted noise and Zevran gave Talia an approving glance.

"You are becoming a woman after my own heart, my dear Warden. Are you quite certain - eh, never mind."

"Quite," Talia confirmed, just in case the glares from Alistair and the bard hadn't made things clear enough. She kept the conversation light until after the waitress had returned with their drinks and departed again, sipping cautiously from the mug of deep red ale.

Leliana sampled her own, and was pleased to find it a slightly sweet stout: definitely strong, but nowhere near as potent as the brew that Tug had convinced her to try.

"All right, what do we know?" Talia said, taking another sip of ale and getting down to business.

"Two candidates seek to replace King Endrin: his son, Prince Bhelen Aeducan and his chief adviser, Lord Pyral Harrowmont," Leliana began. The process of assimilating and summarizing information, sorting the grain from the chaff, was a skill that any bard required, and though it shamed her a bit to admit it, even to herself, she shared Zevran's relish at the intrigue, the sense of a puzzle to be worked out. "The factions supporting the two are violently opposed to each other." They'd seen evidence of that when they were barely inside the massive iron doors, when a vehement confrontation had ended with a dwarf lying dead in the middle of the Commons. "The Prince considers many of the old traditions outdated, and desires to change them, reducing the barriers between the castes and increasing trade with the surface."

"Not necessarily a bad thing," Zevran offered. "That type of openness could mean that he would be willing to commit more resources to the Blight."

"Yes, if you are willing to ignore the rumors that he killed his oldest brother and framed the next oldest for the crime," Alistair countered, his lip curling in distaste.

"Rumors without proof are merely words, my friend," the Antivan replied with a shrug, "and those particular words inevitably come from the supporters of this Harrowmont."

"Who claims that King Endrin wished for _him_ to be the successor, rather than his remaining son," Leliana continued, "again, with no proof beyond his own words, as he was alone with the King when he died." She preferred Harrowmont, herself, but her task here was to lay out the facts as they were known, without bias.

"A happy coincidence for him, I should think," Morrigan said, eyes glinting with irony.

"Lord Harrowmont is known as a traditionalist," the bard went on, acknowledging the witch's comment with a nod. "As such, he is supported by most of the older deshyrs."

"Who will number two fewer if it is revealed that he deceived them with false promises," Morrigan pointed out.

"But the Shaper said that the documents that Bhelen's second gave us were forgeries," Alistair protested, "and he was awfully vague about how they'd come by them."

"Ah, but you forget: the Shaper is Lord Harrowmont's grandmother's great-aunt's second cousin, twice removed," Zevran reminded him with an amused smirk.

"Do you really think that would be cause enough for the Shaper to lie for him?" Alistair demanded, openly skeptical.

"The dwarves do take their family ties quite seriously," Wynne spoke up, "but they also take the Memories quite seriously, as well. While it remains possible that the Shaper is lying, with the issue at hand involving nothing less than the royal succession, it seems unlikely that he would do so."

"You assume that he is as dedicated to his work as you are to yours, my dear Wynne," Zevran replied. "Just because the Shaperate is supposed to be a neutral observer and recorder of history does not mean that individuals do not occasionally succumb to the temptation to influence events...to shape them, if you will." The elf smiled, clearly amused by his own play on words.

"So, we've no real way of knowing for sure where the truth of that matter lies," Talia said, tipping her head back to stare at the ceiling, "and when the stakes are this high, it's rare for anyone's hands to be totally clean." Her gaze dropped back to the table, her expression one of resolve. "We're just going to have to make the best choice we can and live with the consequences," she said with a shrug, the shadow of disquiet in her eyes at odds with her impassive tone. "There's one more thing that I want to check out, though."

"The Proving?" Alistair guessed.

Talia nodded. "If we can confirm that Bhelen forced Harrowmont's fighters to back out of the Proving, I'm going to be inclined to take Dulin up on the offer to fight for Harrowmont."

"You just want to fight in the Proving," Leliana accused her with a teasing smile; she'd not missed the keen interest that kindled in the warrior's eyes when Harrowmont's second had brought up the tournament.

"Maybe." Talia looked a bit embarrassed by the admission. "It's been a while since I was in a fight that wasn't to the death, besides in camp. I don't like Vartag, either, though; he's an arrogant git."

"Such considerations being far more valuable than which of the two candidates would make the stronger ally, of course," Morrigan observed in an acerbic tone.

The Warden shrugged. "They likely each have their strengths and weaknesses, but we're not even going to get to see either of them until we pick a side. We have to go with what we have: Dulin speaks for Harrowmont, and Vartag for Bhelen."

"I have to agree with you on Vartag," Alistair said. "Arrogant and shifty. Dulin at least seems honorable."

"Shall we go and see if we can find these fighters of Harrowmont's, then?" Talia asked him. "If Dulin was telling the truth, then we sign up for tomorrow's Proving."

"And if he was not?" Morrigan wanted to know.

Talia shrugged. "Flip a coin, then. We need a king on the throne." Her eyes tightened almost imperceptibly as she spoke, however, and Leliana knew that the lack of certainty troubled her. She took another swallow of ale, then pushed the nearly full mug away and stood. "Sten, did you want to fight tomorrow?"

Violet eyes regarded the Warden uncomprehendingly. "Why?"

"Well..." Talia cocked her head, searching for a reason, then gave the big man a questioning look. "The qunari don't have tournaments, then?"

"Why would they?"

"To see who is the best fighter?"

"The ones that survive battle are considered sufficiently skilled."

Talia pondered this briefly, then nodded. "All right, then. We probably shouldn't all go, anyway." She glanced from Alistair to Leliana, then arched a questioning brow as Zevran stood to join them after draining his glass.

"What?" he demanded innocently. "It would take more than a single mug of anything to hamper me."

"If you say so," Talia replied, regarding him steadily for a moment longer before moving on. "Shale? You've been pretty quiet."

"I can think of little to say at this point." It might have been the bard's imagination, but she thought that she could detect the faintest hint of disquiet in the golem's atonal drone. "And if another dwarf inquires about buying me, I will likely forget its request that I not squish anything unless it asks me to. It is probably best if I remain here."

"Is anything looking familiar?" Leliana asked Shale. The golem had been outwardly indifferent to the prospect of seeing Orzammar, but she did not see how he could not be at least a bit curious. The golems had been made by the dwarves, after all, which meant that whatever his past was, at least some of it had to lie here.

"Only the stares. Gawking dwarves look much the same as gawking elves or humans, it seems."

The dwarves had even greater reason for their curiosity than the surfacers; the art of creating golems had been lost for centuries, and the massive constructs were all but unknown now. To see one function was remarkable enough, but the fact that Shale was no longer bound by a control rod had been greeted with wonder by some and a covetous acquisitiveness by others. Talia had been offered sums that were beyond exorbitant, and Zevran joked that they could all become kings, simply by 'selling' Shale, wait for the golem to squish his new 'owner' and return, then repeat the process until they ran out of interested buyers.

Well, he _had_ joked. Once. Talia's intervention had saved him from a decidedly messy fate, and he had prudently refrained from repeating the jest.

"I believe that I am going to avail myself of the amenities of my room," Wynne said. "A hot bath and a comfortable bed sound quite appealing to these old bones after camping in the snow."

_Hot bath._ Leliana managed to suppress a longing sigh. How long had it been since she had enjoyed that particular luxury, as opposed to quick washes in a pond or stream, or from pails of water heated beside a fireplace? As guests of the Assembly, their rooms in the tavern, while not free, had been generously discounted, and were by far the best the bard had experienced since leaving Orlais.

"Enjoy it while you can, then," Talia told the mage with a smile. "I'm hoping we can wrap things up here in a couple of days." Leliana sneaked a glance at the Warden, thinking of the large tub carved into the stone floor in the corner of their room, and found herself hoping that their business here would require a bit more than a couple of days.

"A hot bath?" Morrigan regarded the older mage with a disdainful air. "Such coddling will not serve you well when we are back out in the cold."

"I assure you, I am more than capable of withstanding the change," Wynne replied calmly. "You should try the tub in your own room; I'd imagine that such amenities were not common in the Korcari Wilds. You might find that you like it."

"Are you implying that I smell, or that I am such an untutored bumpkin that I would not know the use of a tub?" Morrigan demanded, golden eyes sparking with irritation. "I assure you, I do know how to bathe!"

"But it's not just about getting clean, Morrigan," Leliana put in. "It's about indulging yourself, pampering your senses! They have provided the loveliest selection of bath salts; the smell is divine, and the hot water and steam..." The sigh finally escaped her, and Talia regarded her quizzically.

"Did you want to stay and get a bath while we go talk to Harrowmont's men, then?"

"I'll wait," the bard replied, smiling to herself as the Warden turned her attention to the witch.

"Don't worry about it, Morrigan. I never understood all the fuss about baths, either." She gave Zevran a suspicious glance. "What?"

"Nothing," the elf replied with exaggerated innocence before smirking to Alistair, "Would you care to place a wager on how long that opinion remains unchanged?"

"Ah...no," the other Warden replied, blushing under Talia's pointed gaze. "I don't think I will."

Talia glanced toward Leliana, a gleam of understanding in her eyes and a faint smile touching her mouth. "Shall we go, then?"

"Ruin my appetite and leave, you mean?" Morrigan inquired acidly. "By all means, go, before my lack of hunger proceeds to active nausea."

Talia chuckled, tilting her head in the direction of the door. "Brego, come on." The mabari raised his head, regarding her blearily for a moment and licking his chops before resuming his attempt to nose his way into the mug that lay on its side in front of him, a dark stain on the floor all that remained of its contents.

Talia looked from Brego to Alistair, eyes narrowing. "Did you give my dog a beer?"

"Well, yes." He looked defensive. "I didn't really care for it, and he was begging, and...well, you try to say no to those eyes!"

"Not to mention those teeth," Zevran murmured, stepping around the dog gingerly.

"I do, regularly," Talia scoffed, looking torn between laughter and irritation. "He wouldn't bite you for that, and you know it." She gave Brego a resigned look. "Stay with Wynne, boy." The mabari's massive head swiveled toward the mage, thick strands of drool stringing from his jowls to the floor.

"Absolutely not!"

"Sten, then," Talia amended, waiting for the Qunari to nod curtly before turning away, adding to Alistair, "but he's sleeping with you tonight. Fergus used to sneak him beer sometimes, and it always gave him gas."

* * *

A little over an hour later, the four left the Proving, Talia's expression a mix of satisfaction, anticipation and worry. Harrowmont's fighters had indeed been 'persuaded' not to fight, and she had seized on the idea of adding to Bhelen's humiliation by convincing the two warriors to re-enter the Proving alongside the Grey Wardens. One, named Gwiddon, had been relatively easy, since he had simply been gullible enough to allow himself to be convinced that Harrowmont planned to concede the throne, regardless of the outcome of the tournament. It had been a simple matter to present him with the truth, and he had been outraged enough about the lie that Leliana suspected that his opponents would bear the brunt of his displeasure.

The other was going to prove a bit more...problematic, but Leliana found herself anticipating the challenge to come. Talia, on the other hand...

"I don't like this," the Warden pronounced, as though she hadn't already said it before...twice, in fact.

"That's my line," Alistair muttered, looking no less pleased.

"Well, if we're going to argue about it, could we at least do it someplace a bit less public?" Leliana asked, trying for patience. Baizyl's love letters were not going to retrieve themselves, and without that guarantee of his lover's honor and safety, the warrior would never fight.

"There can be no argument," Zevran said with uncharacteristic firmness, holding up a hand as Talia's eyes flashed dark fire. "Do you remember what I told you in Denerim?" His own eyes were calm, but his expression was unyielding. Talia opened her mouth, closed it again and nodded.

"Come on," she said, slipping a hand through Alistair's arm and pulling him away. The other Warden stared down at her in astonishment, but evidently decided against further protest. Talia looked back briefly, her eyes meeting those of the bard, her expression somber. "Be careful," she said softly, and then they were both gone.

Leliana glared at Zevran suspiciously. "What exactly did you say to her in Denerim?" She wasn't jealous...not exactly, anyway...but the ease with which the Crow had ended what had threatened to be a prolonged debate left her feeling a trifle out of sorts, with an unease twisting in her stomach that robbed the impending caper of its appeal.

"The truth," Zevran replied simply, "put in a way that I knew she would not ignore or contest, as well as one that it would not occur to you to use. Ask her yourself, once we have seen to the task at hand."

She glowered for a moment longer, then nodded, lips pursed to a thin line. Damn the elf; his faint, sardonic smile made it clear that he knew how frustrating his oblique answer would be, but his reminder of the need to focus was far from amiss.

"How shall we do this?" she asked, forcing her mind in the direction that it needed to go.

"I will go first, and capture the attention of the lovely lady," the elf said. "You wait perhaps five minutes and follow; the path to her chambers should be clear." He cocked his head, his gaze becoming questioning. "Is that satisfactory? I assumed that you would prefer not to be the distraction, in case seduction becomes necessary."

"You assumed correctly," she replied, her voice terse. "Go, and I will follow."

He offered a half bow that could be construed as either subtly mocking or exceedingly polite, depending upon the mindset of the watcher, and was gone, leaving her to her disquieting thoughts.

Denerim. Her memories of their last visit to the city were not pleasant, and not only because of the near-disaster with Rendon Howe. Not even mostly because of that, in fact. Talia's disapproval of her deception of the pair of Blackstone mercenaries, the almost instinctive distaste with which she had reacted to the notion of using flirtation and guile to gain information...was that why she was displeased now?

If it was, there was no help for it. The letters had to be retrieved in secret, and at least Zevran had volunteered to serve as the distraction. She wasn't even certain that she could manage a seduction now, should it be called for; the thought of returning from such a task and looking into Talia's eyes...

_Let it go,_ she warned herself. She did not need to play the role of seductress here, and the task of picking locks and retrieving papers was one that she could accomplish in her sleep. Unfortunately, that meant that after a brief mental review of the layout of the fighters' chambers and the positioning of the guards (a rather liberal term, since most of those in the Proving, including the guards themselves, seemed to view their function as primarily ceremonial), her mind was left free to resume its worrying. No...a seduction, or even assassination, would not be required of her this day, but what of another? What would she do if Talia's life depended that she engage in such activity?

What would she _not_ do would be the simpler question, because the answer was almost nothing. She would protect her Warden with any means at her disposal, and if that meant that Talia would turn from her in disgust afterward...

_Do you see how she looks at me? That is how she will look at you, once she sees how you truly are. It is only a matter of time._

Marjolaine's voice, dripping with false commiseration, was so clear that the bardmaster might have been at her shoulder, and Leliana clenched her teeth. Would the woman never fully die?

_Enough._ It was time to go. Giving her head a little shake, she allowed herself to merge with the steady flow of people who entered and left the Proving, making no attempt at stealth just yet, knowing that sometimes, the best way to sneak was to stay in plain sight.

The theft itself was almost ridiculously easy; waiting for Zevran after she had returned the letters to Baizyl and received his promise that he would fight the next day was considerably more difficult. She was on the verge of returning to the tavern to summon aid, certain that something must have gone wrong, when the elf appeared, his jaunty demeanor grating on her nerves the moment she saw him.

"Myaja and her brother were right," he announced as he drew near, green eyes gleaming with mischief. "They _do_ do everything together...and quite well, too."

"I can do without the details," she informed him crisply. "I was beginning to think you had decided to keep them distracted all the way through the Proving tomorrow."

"I wanted to be certain that you had sufficient time to return to our dwarven friend with his paramour's letters," he replied with a shrug. "Such a keen sense of duty is a burden, but I bear it well, would you not agree?"

"Most bravely," she said, rolling her eyes. "Thank you." He seemed unable to resist playing his games, but time and again, his actions belied the aura of cheerful cynicism that he wore so easily.

His smile widened, and she more than half expected more of his usual good-natured lechery, but he only said, "Let us return, then, before the Wardens come in search of us...and before the Prince's fighters discover that their pleasure had a cost."

* * *

He was not far off with his appraisal. When Leliana let herself into the room she shared with Talia, she found the warrior pacing the floor, still in her armor.

"Where have you been?" she demanded as the bard closed the door and engaged the lock. Before Leliana could answer, Talia strode forward and caught her up in a fierce embrace. She surrendered to the kiss without hesitation, eager for the rise of desire to obscure the fear that refused to be quelled.

"I was about to grab Alistair and come looking for you," Talia murmured reprovingly when they drew apart, the circle of her arms loosening only slightly.

"Zevran decided to make certain I had plenty of time to steal the letters and return to Baizyl," she replied, forcing a laugh. "I'm sure he'll tell you all about his dedication tomorrow."

"I'm sure," Talia echoed, but her eyes were intent on the Orlesian's face, and Leliana knew that she could see past the dissemblance. "Everything went as planned, then?"

She nodded. "I got the letters and returned them to Baizyl," she said. "With his love's safety assured, he will gladly fight for his kinsman tomorrow." She wrapped her arms around Talia, frowning at the unyielding steel plate. "You should have taken your armor off."

"Not until I knew that _my_ love's safety was assured," Talia countered. "I couldn't very well storm the Proving without my armor, could I?" She smiled as she spoke, but there was a glint in her eyes that made it clear that that was precisely what she would have done, armor or no, had she thought it necessary. "What's wrong?" She tipped Leliana's face up to look into her eyes, her expression growing worried.

The bard shook her head. "Later." She began pressing Talia toward the bed, her fingers going to the buckles securing her lover's gorget. She wanted to lose herself in the warrior's eyes, her kiss, her touch, and let the thrum of passion drown out Marjolaine's mocking voice, but Talia's hands covered her own.

"What is it?" she persisted, gently but stubbornly. "Did something happen?"

"No. Nothing happened." Her hands worked free of the light restraint and returned to the leather straps, slipping the gorget from the Warden's neck and letting it fall to the floor, moving next to the harness that held the shoulder pauldrons in place. "Later. Please?" She added the silent plea of her eyes to her words and saw the last of Talia's resistance melt. The warrior let herself be guided toward the bed, hands moving to free the bard from her own armor and her kiss pushing away all thoughts of anything save need and desire.

* * *

"I'm sorry."

Talia's voice, soft and remorseful, cut through the pleasant haze that Leliana had allowed to enfold her. The lovemaking had done a great deal to calm her jangled nerves, and she found herself dozing lightly in the Warden's embrace, soothed by the slow rhythm of her lover's breath and the gentle drift of her hands through the bard's hair and along her back.

She tipped her head back, giving Talia a sleepy smile. "I can't think of anything you've done that you need to be apologizing for."

"I could have let well enough alone in the Proving," Talia responded, her face shadowed. "Alistair and I fighting for Harrowmont would have been enough of a statement. There was no need to have you steal those letters."

The last of the haze dissipated with a wave of unease. "Having them fight for their sponsor will only strengthen his position and our cause," she replied slowly, feeling her heart give a nervous flutter in her chest. "I only wish there had been a more honorable way to accomplish it."

Talia shook her head, frowning. "There was no honor in what Bhelen did. He was willing to destroy the life of his own kinswoman to gain an advantage in the Proving. We were right to help Baizyl, to get those letters back, even if it did nothing at all to help Harrowmont." She pressed her lips to the bard's forehead. "I just don't like asking you to do such things; it makes me feel no better than Marjolaine, using you to -"

"No!" Leliana moved before she could finish speaking, pressing the Warden onto her back and pinning her shoulders to the bed. "You are nothing like her!" she said fiercely. "Never think that, my love." Her fingers came up to brush along the curve of a cheek. "I would do anything for you," she whispered, "but after the argument we had in Denerim, I feared that you would think less of me for making use of the skills that I learned as a bard."

"Denerim?" Talia's brow creased in puzzlement, then smoothed. "You mean about flirting with those mercenaries to get information?" Arms encircled her, drawing her close again, Talia's breath warm against her cheek. "I just didn't understand what you were doing then, and it worried me." She turned her head, resting her forehead against the bard's. "Is that what was bothering you earlier? You thought I didn't approve of you stealing the letters?"

Leliana nodded, relief and fear fluttering expectantly in her chest, waiting to see which of them would be released and which kept and fed. "And of Zevran seducing Myaja and her brother to distract them," she added softly.

The Warden's eyebrows lifted at that. "Both of them?" she asked, though she seemed amused, rather than appalled, and Leliana felt the fear begin to still. Talia shook her head, a bemused smile on her face. "He's thorough; I'll give him that." She shifted back onto her side, drawing the bard with her. "Did he tell you what it was that he said to me in Denerim?"

Leliana shook her head. "Only that it was not something that I would have thought to say, and to ask you when we got back."

The Warden snorted, eyes narrowed slightly. "That sounds like him," she muttered. "He does love his games." She gave her head a little shake. "He warned me that my reactions could put your life in danger, and that I should trust your instincts." The warrior's thumb traced the line of her lower lip. "I do trust your instincts; I trust _you_. It's the rest of the world that I'm not so sure of."

She sighed, her dark eyes somber. "Politics is usually a dirty business; my parents never cared for the games, but they knew that they had to be able to play them, to be able to protect themselves and us. They taught Fergus and me, showed us how to stay within certain bounds and how to be on guard against those who didn't." She shrugged. "Fergus would have been Teyrn eventually, and once I was married, I would have been expected to help my husband, as my mother helped my father."

Her tone was matter of fact, but there was a faint gleam of irony in her eyes as she spoke, and Leliana felt a prick of jealousy at the notion of her lover pushed into an arranged marriage, however kind and honorable the husband her parents chose for her might have been.

"Do you think -" she began, then faltered, gathered her courage and tried again. "Do you think they would be disappointed? In me, I mean: what I was, what I am...and am not?"

"Because you are a woman, you mean? Or because you were one of those who played the games that they disapproved of?" No hint of judgment colored Talia's voice, but Leliana felt her stomach do a nervous twist, all the same.

"Either," she said softly, "or both, I suppose."

Talia went silent for a long moment. "I think that Mother would have wished for grandchildren," she said at last, her tone measured, considering. "And I don't know that my father would have considered anyone good enough for me." Her smile was wistful, but when her eyes met Leliana's, there was nothing in them but warmth and love, "But they would be glad that I have the benefit of your skill and knowledge, and knowing that I was happy would satisfy them. They would have come to love you for yourself in time. You'd have gotten along well with Mother, and once Fergus was done playing the protective big brother, I think he would have enjoyed having someone who could match him at cards and dice. Oriana would have loved to have someone to discuss fashion with, and Oren -" She broke off, her eyes misting over, but when she spoke again, her voice was clear and her lips touched with an affectionate smile, "Oren would have been at you day and night for songs and stories. He would have adored you."

"And I would have loved him," Leliana replied, feeling the last of the fear dissipating and the relief swelling into a bittersweet ache. She buried her face against Talia's neck, holding on tight. "Thank you, my love."

"They're your family too, now," Talia told her, "for all that you never met them. I want you to know them, as I wish they could have known you."

"Then tell me more of them." the bard asked. "Please?" This sharing, and the trust that it implied, was something that she had come to treasure, precisely because it was nothing that she had ever before known.

"Are you sure?" Talia regarded her with one eyebrow arched questioningly. "I gathered from the conversation at the table that you were planning to change my mind regarding the subject of baths."

Leliana peered into the Warden's face, searching for any signs of reluctance or pain, but found only a gentle mirth.

"Quite sure," she replied, resting her head contentedly on Talia's shoulder. "The bath will be there later."

"As you wish, then," the warrior agreed, settling back and drawing the lightest of the blankets over them both, her arms folding around the bard and her cheek resting against the auburn hair. "My father met my mother during the war against Orlais..."


	41. Darkness

"Remember when I said that going back to Ostagar was the craziest thing we'd ever done?" Alistair asked. "I'm pretty sure we've topped ourselves."

Talia nodded silently. Though it was the closest thing to a joke that either of them had made in nearly two days, neither of them laughed. It had been a week since they had left Orzammar to enter the Deep Roads, since they had last seen the sun.

Or maybe it was more than a week. Or maybe not quite as long as that. In the unchanging darkness of the tunnels, time was hard to figure. They slept when they grew tired, ate when they could and walked as long as they were all able.

And they fought. A lot.

The darkspawn at Ostagar had been nothing in comparison to the near-constant onslaught that they had endured since entering the Deep Roads. They came from the darkness in waves, breaking upon sword and shield, spell and arrow, but always there seemed more to take their place; the companions had quickly learned to rest when the opportunity presented itself.

Four days - roughly - to Caridin's Cross, relying on magical light and Oghren's stone-sense to find their way. Talia still was unsure what to make of the dwarf. His determination to find Branka seemed sincere enough, but despite his apparent attachment to his missing wife, he'd made passes at every female in the group, including Wynne, since joining them, and Talia had been on the verge of dismissing him more than once.

Despite the fact that he seemed perpetually drunk (or perhaps because of it?), the dwarf was a formidable fighter, even in a berserker's rage, and there was a gruff practicality to him when he wasn't going out of his way to be offensive – which seemed to be most of the time. Without him, they would never have recognized the faint chips in the stone that marked Branka's passage, and likely never found the carved words indicating that the Paragon's next destination had been Ortan Thaig.

"She wanted me t' find this!" Oghren had crowed, green eyes gleaming as he'd shoved aside the last of the piled stones that had concealed the inscription. "The woman never could keep her hands off of me!"

"Most likely because they were around your throat," Morrigan had grumbled. "A pity that her grip was not stronger."

"Oh, nothin' wrong with her grip," the dwarf had replied with a lecherous grin. "Those hands could squeeze -" Lighting had arced across the space between he and the witch, and once his beard had stopped smoldering, he had evidently decided not to continue his previous line of conversation.

The almost overwhelming pressure that the darkspawn presence triggered within Talia had eased up a bit as they had left the ancient crossroads and drawn closer to Ortan Thaig. She could see it in Alistair, as well: a smoothing of the near-constant furrows that had taken up residence on his brow and a loosening of the incessant grip he'd maintained on his sword.

Unfortunately, they had discovered that the lessened presence of darkspawn in the ruined thaig was due to the presence of the spirits of the dwarves that had once inhabited the place: spirits that did not seem any more kindly disposed to the intrusion of the Wardens. Add to that golems of stone and metal that seemed to be controlled by the ghosts, and an infestation of spiders the size of Brego, and the reason for the scattering of darkspawn corpses along the tunnels leading into Ortan Thaig had soon become apparent. On the down side, she and Alistair could not sense the proximity of these new foes, but neither did they seem to be drawn to the Wardens as the darkspawn were, which meant that now that they had cleared this area, they could expect at least a few hours of peace.

They were desperately needed hours. Only Oghren and Shale seemed completely unaffected by their surroundings. Even Sten, though outwardly he seemed as stoic as ever, frequently glanced to the stone that hemmed them in from above, below and on all sides. Morrigan had developed the restless irritability of a caged cat, and Wynne, while still steady and calm, was graver than usual. Even Zevran's perpetually cheerful demeanor had been blunted, and his jests frequently had a morbid edge to them.

It was Leliana who worried both Wardens the most, however. The endless, oppressive darkness was smothering the Orlesian's bright spirit, as much as she tried to hide it. Sound carried in the caverns, resonating from the stone, which meant that conversations were kept low, and music and song could not be indulged in. Deprived of both the sun and her music, the bard had grown pale and quiet, clinging to Talia during their periods of rest as though fearful that something in the blackness might pull one of them away, and she could frequently be heard whispering the words of the Chant as she walked. Her fighting skills remained unblunted, but the odd behavior of the darkspawn could not be helping her state of mind.

"What do you think they're trying to do?" she asked Alistair quietly, after glancing back to be sure that neither Leliana nor Morrigan was close enough to overhear. The rest of the group was setting up camp, such as it was, the only light the muted glow from the mages' staffs and Shale's crystals. Too much illumination was as sure to draw attention as too much sound, but the light did more than guide their movements; it was a vital balm to the spirit, a reminder that the darkness was not a solid wall, but something that could be pushed back, and a promise of their eventual return to the world above and the light of the sun.

"I wish I knew," he sighed, not needing to ask what she spoke of. Over the last few days, whenever they engaged a darkspawn force of any size, the creatures unfailingly attempted to separate Leliana and Morrigan from the rest of the group, while trying to kill the rest. Only those two. In response, the group had tightened up their formation even more, with the melee fighters in a ring around the two mages and the archer, guarding against any attempts to get to them from the flanks or rear, while Zevran and Brego stayed free to attack any who broke through. "Definitely enough to make me miss something as simple as politics, though."

"Yes." The two of them had almost romped through the Proving, winning with an ease that had lent strength to the whispers that the Ancestors favored not only Harrowmont, but the Wardens' cause, as well. Not everyone was convinced, of course; they'd been attacked twice by Bhelen's followers in Orzammar itself, and once more when they entered the Deep Roads, and these fights had not ended at first blood.

Talia would have thought that the documents they'd found while taking down the criminal cartel that held Dust Town and the merchants in an iron grip, documents that indicated that the Cartel leader, Jarvia, had assisted Bhelen in killing his eldest brother and framing the other for the crime, would have sealed up the issue of succession. Dwarven politics, it seemed, were more convoluted than that, which was why they now found themselves wandering through the very same Deep Roads where Grey Wardens had for centuries come to die at the time of their Calling: because the vote of one woman, the only living Paragon, was needed to sway the opinion of the Assembly.

Just their bad luck that said Paragon had packed up her entire household (minus one drunkard berserker of a husband) and vanished into the Deep Roads on a mysterious errand a full two years earlier, and had not been seen or heard from since. And there was no guarantee that if they found her alive, she would agree to vote at all, or that she wouldn't support Bhelen instead of Harrowmont. It was almost enough to make Talia decide that the dwarves were a bunch of sodding lunatics who couldn't possibly be enough help against the Blight to be worth this much trouble and risk.

Almost.

"Might as well get some rest while we can," she sighed. Wynne had set the stew-pot up over an odd contraption that Oghren had brought along: something that generated a strong and lasting heat by mixing two powders together. Damned useful when there was nothing but stone to burn. Deep stalkers were ugly things, but they made for decent eating with a bit of seasoning and a few vegetables.

Leliana had settled to the ground with her back to a large stone. She looked up with a wan smile as Talia approached and sat beside her, pulling off her gloves, gauntlets and gorget and tucking them all into her helmet. She hadn't been fully out of her armor in days, but she needed the contact, the reassuring warmth of skin on skin, as much as her lover did. The bard came to her willingly, pressing her face into the Warden's neck with a weary sigh, snuggling as close as their respective armor would allow.

"Wynne is cooking dinner," Talia told her.

"Not hungry," was the murmured reply, one that Talia had heard far too often for her liking of late.

"You have to eat, love," she pressed gently, slipping a bit of dried meat into the bard's hand. "For me?" she added.

Leliana nodded, looking dubiously at the tough strip of jerky. "Nug?"

Talia shook her head. "Bronto." The Orlesian had become quite enamored with the odd looking 'rabbit-pig creatures' that were one of the major sources of meat in Orzammar. Talia had given thought to surprising her with one as a pet, but she was glad she had waited; keeping track of it in the Deep Roads would have been difficult, particularly with Oghren's fondness for the meat.

Leliana nodded and nibbled halfheartedly at the stuff. "How long have we been down here?"

"A week," Talia replied, chewing on her own piece of bronto jerky. "No more than that." In truth, she wasn't entirely sure that it hadn't been longer.

"It seems like forever," the bard mused softly. "I can barely remember the sun, the sky. It's like it was all a dream, and this place, this darkness, is all that is real, all that will ever be real."

"No." Talia set the meat aside and wrapped her arms around Leliana, tipping the Orlesian's face up until their eyes met. "This place is awful, but it's just a place. We will get through it, and we will see the sun again, I promise."

Leliana nodded again, but her expression remained distant, detached. "If I die down here, you must go on," she said, her voice eerily calm.

"Stop that!" Talia scolded her, giving her a little shake. "That's not going to happen! I'll die before I let -" The words caught. _Let them take you?_ For what? She didn't know, and she was morbidly certain that if they ever did find out the reason, the truth was going to be something that haunted her dreams. Her father had not attempted to censor her learning about the history of the war with Orlais; she knew that too often, soldiers from both sides had taken women as prizes, brutalizing them and either killing them or leaving them behind like refuse. The memory of the vision in the Gauntlet had put an all too personal touch to that knowledge, but what in the Maker's name could darkspawn want with living women?

Young women, untouched by the taint. No attempts had been made to take either Talia or Wynne. She turned her mind forcibly away from the haunting thoughts. Regardless of their intent, she would not let them take either Leliana or Morrigan. "I won't let anything happen to you."

"You have to live." Leliana caught her hands, holding tight. "You and Alistair must survive if the archdemon is to be defeated."

"We will." Talia brought the bard's hands to her lips, kissing them. "We'll all survive, and we'll see the sun again. I promise." She had no business making such oaths, but seeing Leliana's unwavering hope and faith so dimmed was distressing, and she was determined to be the bard's strength now, as Leliana had so often been for her.

The Orlesian knew as well as she did that she could not guarantee her words, but she did not say so; instead, she nestled close, murmuring, "Tell me a story, my Warden. All of mine seem to have deserted me."

"All right," Talia agreed. "What would you like to hear?"

"Tell me something of Highever," Leliana said with a wistful smile. "Highever and the sun."

"I can do that," the Warden said. Since she'd first begun to speak to her lover of her family and her home, Highever had acquired an almost talismanic appeal to the bard who had never had a home of her own; she never seemed to tire of hearing of it. "There's a meadow in the mountains above the castle. It's ringed all around with evergreen trees, and in the springtime, the new grass is such a pure green that it almost hurts your eyes to look at it. Then, in the summer, the flowers bloom: every color you can think of, and you can hardly see the green for all the reds and yellows and purples and oranges, so bright in the sun, and when the wind blows, the colors ripple, and you can smell all the different flowers mixed together in the air."

"Will you take me there?"

"Of course." Talia smiled, trailing her fingers through the auburn hair. "We'll pack a picnic, take some wine and spend the whole afternoon there, listening to the bees buzzing in the flowers and feeling the sun on our skin."

When she stopped, there was no answer; Leliana's breathing had become slow and even. Talia carefully drew her cloak around them both. The temperature in the tunnels was relatively constant, and warm enough that Oghren's heating contraption was only needed for cooking, but cool enough that light blankets made for more comfortable rest.

"She sleeps?"

Talia lifted her eyes from her worried inspection of her lover's pale face to find Zevran crouched before them, a steaming mug in his hand. She nodded. "I think she needs rest more than food right now," she said, accepting the tea from the elf and sipping cautiously.

"Indeed," he agreed, his expression unreadable. "Even the hardiest of flowers wilts if kept too long in darkness."

"She'll be fine," the warrior replied, a bit more sharply than she'd intended, and Leliana stirred with an uneasy murmur. The Warden turned her attention back to the bard, stroking her hair until she settled back into sleep. "She'll be fine," she repeated, more quietly this time, hoping that her words were true.

"She is strong," the assassin said, his eyes steady upon both of them, "but guard her well, my friend."

"I plan to," Talia replied, watching his face, wondering. "Who was Rinna?"

If the question surprised him, he did not show it. "That is a tale poorly suited for such darkness," he told her, a faint smile, bitter and sardonic, touching his lips as he added, "Suffice it to say for now, she was one that I failed to guard well."

He was gone as silently as he had arrived. Talia pondered his words for a time, then set the mug aside and let her head tip back against the stone, her eyes slipping closed in a half-doze, part of her mind remaining aware and vigilant.

The lightest touch on her shoulder brought her eyes open to find the elf once again crouched before her.

"Alistair says that something - someone - is near."

Now that she was fully awake, she could feel it now, too, and she wasn't surprised that it hadn't woken her. The pressure was light and strange: not like the feel of darkspawn, but neither like the taint that she shared with Alistair felt. Even before she moved, the subtle tension in Leliana's body told her that her lover was awake, too, and by the time she had swiftly and silently donned the few pieces of armor that she had removed, the bard was standing by her side, bow in hand and her face pale but determined.

"We stay together, yes?" "Yes," Talia confirmed, stepping toward the rest of the group. There seemed to be no darkspawn nearby, but that could change quickly. "Standard formation, just leave the stew

"It should be ready to eat when we get back," the mage replied, as calmly as if they were simply going for a stroll, though the tightness around her eyes betrayed her tension.

Alistair was at her right, Oghren to her left as they moved in the direction of the odd sensation. "Any idea what it could be?" she asked the dwarf.

"Maybe." His expression was uncharacteristically grim. "Heard tales of folk getting lost down here, having to eat darkspawn corpses to survive. Never saw one, myself, but I've heard that it makes 'em strange...and I'm talkin' strange in a bad way. They call 'em ghouls."

"Lovely," Talia muttered, casting a sideways glance at Alistair, whose expression suggested that he shared her sentiment. The group froze as one at the sudden awkward scuffling of feet on stone and an unintelligible babbling that began to fade as the source moved away from them.

"There." Alistair pointed, where a faint shadow could be seen moving into one of the tunnels that led off of the main chamber. They moved to follow, but abruptly found themselves beset by spiders, drawn by their light.

Spiders were supposed to by tiny things that spun webs in corners and caught flies, not these monsters whose fangs could penetrate armor and whose poison sapped the strength from your limbs, leaving you at their mercy. Talia had seen the dried up husks that they had cut from hanging cocoons, and she had absolutely no interest in such a fate for herself or any who followed her. Fortunately, while the spiders were formidable, they were not particularly cunning, and coordinated tactics worked well against them. After six of the beasts were killed, the remaining two scuttled off into the darkness.

"Anyone bit?" Talia asked, turning in a slow circle, looking for any hint of another attack, finding none, though the roof of the cavern was far overhead, lost in a darkness that extended well beyond their lights. She could have the mages brighten the illumination of their staffs, of course, but that risked attracting more attention.

"All present, accounted for and un-punctured," Zevran reported after the rest had spoken up in the negative.

"Careful," Oghren warned her as they started into the tunnel that the shadow had vanished down. "This ends in a blind alley: no other way out. Whatever's in there is gonna be cornered."

She nodded, knowing without being told that any foe would be more dangerous in such a situation. "Alistair, Oghren, Leliana and Wynne with me...no, you stay here and guard," she added as Brego butted against her leg. "The rest of you stand guard and sing out if anything comes calling."

They moved forward slowly, eyes on a guttering, golden light that danced fitfully on the stone walls ahead, the source just out of sight around a bend in the tunnel.

"Go away! This is mine! Only I gets to plunder its riches!"

The tunnel opened into a smaller cavern, easily illuminated by the tiny fire that burned off to one side. Talia let her eyes sweep briefly over the debris and artifacts that were scattered across the stone floor before turning her gaze to the form that cowered beside the fire.

"Andraste's mercy," Leliana whispered. "What...what is it?"

"It's a dwarf," Oghren grunted. "Or it was one."

The creature did indeed resemble a dwarf, but its limbs were twisted by some strange contraction of the muscles, its head canted at an awkward angle. The skin visible through the tattered remnants of clothing was pale and covered in dark blotches, and the eyes were sunken, surrounded by more of the darkly stained skin, their surface glossed with an opaque sheen, like a fine scum of mold on the surface of a pond.

"We're not here to take anything," Talia told it, keeping her voice low and calm. "We just want to talk."

"Don't be so sure of that," Oghren grunted, surveying the cavern with narrowed eyes. "Looks like an old campsite. Could've been Branka's."

"No!" the deformed dwarf cried out. "Is mine! You leave my territory!"

"I'm not here to steal anything, I promise," Talia said in her most persuasive tone, shooting a warning glance at Oghren.

The eerily opaque eyes regarded her with a mix of fear and wonder. "Pretty lady," he murmured, looking past her to Leliana. "Both pretty ladies. Pretty eyes, pretty hair." Talia fought back the instinctive urge to step between the bard and this unclean, twisted...thing. "Pretty ladies won't take anything from Ruck? You won't take Ruck's shiny worms and pretty rocks?"

Ruck? Talia's heart sank at the name, and a glance back at Leliana's expression confirmed it. This was Filda's lost son, the one whose fate Talia had promised the grieving mother that she would try to discover.

"No, Ruck," she told him quietly. "We won't take anything. We just want to talk."

"Oh." The mottled face scrunched up, puzzling over her words. "Ruck not mind that...maybe. Ruck not talked to anyone in long time."

Bit by bit, Ruck told the tale of how he had accidentally killed another dwarf in a quarrel and fled to avoid the punishment, how he had been forced to eat the bodies of dead darkspawn to survive. Ironically, the same taint that had turned him into a ghoul seemed to protect him from the darkspawn, hiding him from their notice. When pressed about what he had found in the abandoned camp, he claimed that the 'crawlers' had taken things of metal to their nests, along with the 'papers and words'.

"Papers and words?" Oghren's brow furrowed. "Branka was always one for writin' things down. Could be hers, might give us a clue to where she went from here."

"Guess we get to play with the spiders again, then," Talia muttered, wondering if anything legible would remain after so long. She turned back to Ruck, weighing her next words. "Ruck...I talked to your mother -"

She got no further; Ruck's features twisted into a mask of anguish, and he jammed his hands over his ears. "Nonononono! No mother! No warm blanket and stew and pillow and soft words! Ruck doesn't deserve good memories! Nonono!"

"But she is worried about you." Leliana stepped up beside Talia, compassion winning out over revulsion and fear, though the shadows of both were still in her eyes. "She misses you."

He shook his head even more vehemently. "She remembers a little boy with bright eyes and a hammer. She cannot see -" A single, forlorn gesture made it all to clear that Ruck was aware of his pitiful condition. " - this." The eyes lifted to Talia's face, pleading. "Swear...promise...vow you won't tell!"

"I promise," Talia said. She couldn't imagine telling Filda of her son's fate, but - "Would you rather she thought you were dead?"

He nodded. "Yes! Yes, dead is...better. Ruck can never go back, Ruck belongs here now. The dark is not so bad." He offered a weak effort of a smile. "Once you have eaten the flesh of the dark ones, you...do not miss the light so much."

Before Talia could reply, the opaque eyes focused on her with unnerving clarity, then slid sideways to Alistair. "You know what Ruck means, do you not? Ruck can feel the darkness in you. You are like them...and yet not."

"All right, getting creepy," Alistair muttered with wide eyes.

"Warden? A word with you?" Oghren had withdrawn toward the mouth of the cavern; with a quick glance at Ruck, Talia joined him, the others close behind. "I don't care what he did, Warden, no one deserves to live like this." The dwarf's face was set. "Killin' him would be a mercy."

"I -" Talia opened her mouth, closed it again, looked helplessly to Wynne. "Is there anything you can do for him?"

The mage shook her head, her eyes sorrowful. "I wish I could; there is no known cure for the darkspawn taint once it has advanced so far, but -" She glanced past Talia to where Ruck crouched beside the fire, crooning to himself as he pushed a few polished stones around in the dust with a finger. "Is it really for us to decide if he lives or dies? Is that not the Maker's choice?"

"Dwarves don't follow the Maker, Wynne," Oghren replied gruffly, "and I can't imagine that the Ancestors would want him wasting away down here. You planning on lying to his mother?" he challenged Talia.

"I -" She couldn't seem to form words, her mind caught between two equally unpalatable options. "He doesn't deserve to live like this...but I don't think I can kill him." She glanced at Alistair, who shook his head, looking as conflicted as she felt. They were supposed to protect people from fates like this, damn it!

"It's all right," Leliana spoke up suddenly, her face calm. She turned and moved easily back to the dwarf's side, a warm smile on her face as she knelt beside him. He flinched fearfully as she slipped an arm around his shoulders, but then relaxed, looking up at her in hesitant wonder.

"We will tell your mother that you died a great hero, Ruck," she told him gently. "She will be sad, but she will be proud of you."

"You will?" His incredulous look gave way to a smile of heartbreakingly simple joy. "Thank you, pretty lady! Ruck will always remember you."

"And I will always remember you, Ruck." Talia had not thought it possible for the afflicted dwarf to look any happier, but when the Orlesian pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, his expression became almost blissful. An instant later, Leliana's hands moved with blurring speed, there was a sharp crack and then the bard was lowering Ruck's limp body to the floor of the cavern, the smile still lingering on his face.

She stood, her expression almost defiant as she met the stunned gazes of her companions, but beneath it was something fragile and close to breaking. "It is done," she said simply before walking past them and back down the tunnel. Talia stared after her, then back to Ruck's body, then to Alistair, whose wide-eyed expression would have been almost comical in other circumstances. At last, she turned to Oghren. "Check through the debris, see if you can identify anything," she managed. He nodded - silent for once - and moved to obey. With a last, helpless look at Alistair, Talia moved to follow the bard.

The meal was a near-silent affair, and none of those who had been in the cavern could bring themselves to eat. Leliana sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, and her forehead resting on them, her face hidden, refusing to look up when Talia tried to get her to talk. Wynne looked as though she wanted to say something, but Talia's forbidding expression held her silent, and after Oghren returned to report that he'd found Branka's mark carved into the stone, the Warden was quick to get them moving, eager to put distance between themselves and the cavern.

Her mind was reeling, torn by guilt: guilt for Ruck's death, guilt that her bard had done what she had lacked the courage to do, guilt over the knowledge that she would lie to Filda, even though the lie would be a kind one. Ahead, she could make out yet another gorge in the stone, with two curved arches bridging it and on the other side, the faintly glowing forms of more dwarf-spirits, along with the larger, shambling shapes of golems.

"Everybody get ready," she called out in a low voice, eager for something to fight and glad once more that Sandal had worked Cold Iron runes into their weapons. She glanced back, confirming that Leliana remained with the group, but the bard still would not meet her eyes.

Bridge fighting was tricky; darkspawn could be lured across. but the ghosts often didn't respond until you were almost on top of them. "Cross fast and re-form," she ordered, quickening her step and bringing up her shield as she and Alistair hit the bridge side by side. The ghosts reacted almost as soon as they set foot on the far side, and Talia found herself fighting hard to open up enough room for the others. There was no impact when Starfang struck one of the eldritch shapes, but she could feel the blade pass through, and after enough hits, each shape flickered out of existence.

A growing vibration in the stone beneath her feet announced the arrival of at least one of the golems, and she turned to meet it, wondering again just how the ghosts were controlling them; they certainly did not seem to have Shale's free will, and her companion seemed to have no compunction about pounding them to dust. She ducked beneath one massive fist and swung, swearing under her breath at the scrape of metal on stone. Starsteel was incredibly hard to nick, but she'd undoubtedly be using the special whetstone on it later: the one that Mikhael had made using crushed diamonds -

The golem's unexpectedly quick backswing caught her, driving her shield into her chest, and an instant later, she was airborne, her mind going crazily back to the night in camp when Shale had taken her by surprise and knocked her flying just like this, and she almost laughed until she realized that she wasn't being knocked into the dirt, but into the gorge.

The gorge that was filled with swiftly moving water.

She hit with a splash, the weight of the heavy plate pulling her downward as quickly and inexorably as a giant hand, the cold water closing over her before she had a chance to cry out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That really would have happened – more than once – if game mechanics obeyed the laws of physics. The notion gave me a major case of the heebie-jeebies, so of course, I had to put it in.


	42. Light

Alistair shook his head as the last golem tumbled to the ground. For something that supposedly required a control rod to function, these things were remarkably frisky, and this one had managed to deal a blow to his helm as it went down that left his head ringing and his vision doubled...or maybe trebled?

He gave his head another shake, and his vision settled, but the ringing had actually become worse: the high-pitched sound now joined by a deeper, ululating howl.

_Howl?_

His head came up. Where was Talia? She'd been fighting right beside him...he scrunched his eyes closed, opened them again, trying to clear his head of the damned ringing.

No...not ringing. Screaming. Leliana screaming as she tried to break free of Zevran's hold on her. And howling: Brego, racing back and forth along the edge of the gorge, baying frantically as he stared down into the dark water.

And Starfang, lying on the ground right beside...

_Oh, Maker's blood, bones and breath, no!_

Panic raced through him, and his own sword and shield were dropped to the ground as he lunged forward to catch the bard as she twisted out of Zevran's grip.

"She fell in!" Leliana hit at his chest wildly. "We have to get her out! Talia!"

"You won't be able to lift her out, damn it!" he shouted, trying to make himself heard. "Sten!"

The qunari was already stripping out of his armor, a frustrating but necessary delay. He was strong enough to haul Talia out, but if he jumped in while wearing all that plate, he'd sink like a stone, just as she had.

_Sink like a stone..._

"Shale!" he roared, still fighting Leliana. "Can you -"

"I can," the golem confirmed, stepping to the edge of the gorge.

"Wait!" Morrigan let her staff fall to the ground and stepped onto the bridge, peering into the water. "If he lands upon her, 'tis likely that not even Wynne will be able to help. We must _find_ her first, idiots!" She dove, her body blurring in midair and cutting into the water smoothly. An instant later, there was a silvered flash of scales and a splash from a tail as a great fish darted downward.

"She'll find her, Leli!" Grasping the bard by the shoulders, he forced her to look at him. "Morrigan will find her and Shale will get her back! I need you up here!" He shook her until the wild blue eyes focused on him. "I need you to to go with Wynne. We'll need blankets and Oghren's stove set up and quickly!" She hesitated, and he gave her another shake. "We'll get her back, I swear, but you have to help Wynne!"

He waited just long enough to see her nod before thrusting her toward the healer and moving to the gorge in time to see Morrigan surface a good fifty feet downstream in her own form, fighting against the current.

"She's here!" she shouted before shifting back into a fish, disappearing again and then leaping above the water's surface.

"Shale! Go!" At his shout, the golem stepped over the edge of the gorge and dropped the ten feet to the water with a massive splash, sinking until only the top of his head was visible as he moved to the center of the channel and strode with the current toward where Morrigan continued to leap. The last of Sten's armor fell to the ground, and the qunari dove in behind the golem, then quickly passed Shale, swimming with powerful strokes and submerging a few yards short of Morrigan.

"Oghren! Rope!" The dwarf freed a coil of heavy rope from the side of his pack and tossed it to the Warden, who raced along the edge of the gorge, trying desperately to calculate how long she'd been under. The fight hadn't lasted that long - had it? And at what point had Talia been knocked into the water?

_How long, damn it?_

"Brego, hold still!" The mabari ceased his pacing, but still squirmed anxiously as Alistair tried to secure one end of the rope around his chest in a makeshift harness, a task made even more difficult by his trembling hands and the heavy gauntlets.

Zevran crouched on the dog's opposite side and took the rope, moving with silent efficiency and no hint of a tremor, though his face was grim.

Splashing from below brought Alistair's head up to see Sten surfacing with Talia folded over a broad shoulder, bracing himself against Shale's bulk as he struggled toward the wall of the gorge. Alistair dropped the free end of the rope over, waiting until the qunari had a firm grasp on it.

"Pull, boy!" Brego threw himself forward, whining in his eagerness, and Alistair, Oghren and Zevran all took hold of the rope, adding their strength to the mabari's, hauling Sten and Talia upward as the big man pulled himself up hand over hand.

"Stay!" Alistair called out as the white braids came into view. Brego held his position, muscles quivering with the strain while Alistair and Oghren caught Talia's arms and pulled her the rest of the way over. Zevran reached out a hand to assist Sten, but without his burden, the qunari easily hauled himself over the edge.

Leliana rushed in as they eased the warrior onto her back. Her shield and helmet were gone, as were her gauntlets and gloves. Her fingertips oozed blood from several cuts, one nail torn back, and Alistair realized with a sick feeling that she'd done that while trying to loosen the straps of the armor that weighed her down.

"She's not breathing!" The Orlesian's voice was shrill, her hands cupping Talia's still face. "Dear Maker, no! Please!"

"Get her out of that armor." Wynne's voice was crisp and decisive. "The chest and shoulders, at least."

Alistair was reaching forward when Zevran restrained him; before he could protest, there was the flash of a blade where his fingers would have likely been as Leliana slashed through the leather straps with deadly precision, then began pulling the armor away.

A duck winged upward from the gorge, landing next to Talia; despite the situation, Alistair couldn't help a double-take.

"You try changing from a fish to a raven in fast water," Morrigan sniffed as she returned to her own form. "Tis not an easy feat." Her golden eyes were fixed on Talia's still form, her expression more disturbed than he had seen since her own brush with death.

Wynne stepped forward and knelt beside Talia, touching two fingers to her throat. "Her heart still beats!" she exclaimed. "We must expel the water from her lungs, and quickly. Sten -"

The qunari needed no instruction. Lifting Talia once more, he tossed her face-down over his shoulder, then bounced her several times, producing an astonishing flood of water from her mouth and nose. Once more, and she began to cough: weakly at first, but with increasing force, expelling still more water and dragging air back into her lungs with each gasping breath.

"Talia!" Leliana was sobbing as Sten lowered the Warden to the ground. Talia's eyes were open, but showed little comprehension as the bard cradled her head in her lap, brushing wet tendrils of hair away from her face. Brego shoved forward, whining anxiously, but there was no recognition in her unfocused gaze, and her eyes slipped shut again.

"She's alive?" Alistair dropped to his knees, reaching out to touch her shoulder, giving it a cautious shake. "Is she going to be all right?" _Maker, let her be all right,_ he prayed silently. _I'll give up cheese, I'll be nice to Morrigan, just let her live!_

"I believe so," Wynne replied, but her expression remained grave, and she released a healing spell into the Warden, "but it was closer than I want to think about. We need to get her out of these wet clothes and keep her warm. Help me get her closer to the stove."

Alistair and Sten carried Talia to where Wynne and Leliana had laid the blankets out beside the squat tin contraption that was already giving off heat and a dim blue light. No sooner had they laid her down than they found themselves being shooed off by Morrigan.

"Away with you! Or were you planning to help us undress her?" Her eyes shot to Zevran and Oghren. "That question was not directed to either of you."

"Well, no," Alistair replied, feeling the blush start as reliably as a sunrise. "But -"

"You have quite enough to keep you occupied," she reminded him pointedly, "or were you planning on leaving Shale in the water?"

"Oh...yes," Alistair blinked, exchanged a glance with Sten and turned back to Oghren. "I think we're going to need more rope."

* * *

_She was sinking, despite her efforts to claw her way upward. The current had already torn her helmet away, and now she frantically shook her shield from her arm and groped for the buckles on her breastplate as her lungs began to burn with the need for air._

_Gloved fingers fumbled and slipped over the straps, and she dragged them off, panic growing as the water tumbled her through its blackness and still she sank. She could see nothing, feel only the cold, hear only the water rushing in her ears._

_Her chest was on fire now, her lungs demanding air, and as she felt herself settling on the bottom, fear took control and her fingers clawed at the buckles, never feeling the pain as the metal gouged her skin, feeling only her fingers sliding clumsily around, unable to find purchase._

_She had to breathe...she couldn't let herself breathe. She abandoned her attempts at escaping her armor, her arms flailing wildly, trying to pull herself upward, feeling her body's reflexes fighting to overcome her control. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, reflex won out, and her mouth opened in a convulsive gasp, desperate for air, but there was only cold water rushing into her mouth and nose, flooding her lungs..._

"Talia!"

Gentle arms around her as she came up struggling, her chest locked in a spasm that refused to allow her to draw air, panic sinking its claws deep. She fought, but weakly, bright spots of color dancing in the blackness that still surrounded her, and the arms never loosed their hold, a blessedly familiar voice murmuring in her ear:

"Talia, it's all right. You're safe now, but you must calm down and relax so that you can breathe. Breathe, Talia. Breathe. Easy, now. It's all right, love."

Slowly, the embrace, the soothing words, the gentle kisses pressed to her forehead and cheek loosened the grip of panic, and she drew a ragged breath, then another, and the musty air of the Deep Roads tasted sweeter than any she'd known.

"That's it, my love." Leliana crooned encouragingly, helping her to sit up, then shifting forward and drawing the Warden back against her, pulling the blankets that had fallen away back around them both. One arm slid around her waist, the other brushed her hair away from her face and tipped her head back until it rested against the bard's shoulder. Brego edged forward, nudging at her with a low whine, and she snaked a hand out from beneath the blankets to pull him to her side.

"Chest hurts." The words were uttered in a croak, her throat raw and sore, and she turned her face into Leliana's neck, feeling the warmth of her skin, the heat of the bodies pressed close to her, and still there was ice at her core that the warmth could not seem to reach.

"It was full of water." There was an unmistakeable note of reproach in the reply, one that vanished as a convulsive shudder rolled through her at the memory of the water filling her mouth and nose. "I'm sorry, dear one. I didn't mean to -"

"It's all right." Talia lifted her head, seeing the bard's face in the faint light given off by the stove. Slipping her hand into the fall of red hair, she kissed Leliana: weak but lingering. "My own stupidity, engaging so close to the water when I knew what golems could do. How did you get me out?"

"I didn't." Her voice was soft and filled with self reproach. "The others did it all." Talia listened as she told the tale of the frantic rescue. "Alistair took charge wonderfully; you would have been pleased with him."

"Believe me, I am," Talia replied fervently, settling back against Leliana's shoulder, surprised and dismayed by how weak she felt. "I'm a bit sorry that I missed seeing Morrigan as a duck, though."

The laugh that she was hoping for did not come, and a moment later, she felt the hot splash of a tear against her cheek. "Hey." She twisted to face the bard, ignoring the protest of her ribs and abdominal muscles. "I'm all right."

"You almost weren't." The words were no more than a whisper. "I thought I'd lost you, and there was nothing I could do."

"I couldn't do much, either," Talia told her, remembering being tumbled helplessly beneath the water. "Good thing we've got friends, eh?"

This time her smile received at least a faint response. "Indeed," Leliana agreed, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

Talia glanced around, realizing for the first time that she, Leliana and Brego seemed to be alone. The others' packs were there, but - "Where is everyone?"

A look of apprehension crossed the bard's features, and Talia felt an answering twist in her gut even before Leliana replied, "They've gone to see if any of the papers that Ruck spoke of can be retrieved from the spiders."

"What?" Talia tried to scramble to her feet, but Leliana held on, and the Warden discovered that she lacked the strength to break free of the bard's gentle but insistent embrace.

"You are in no condition to fight," Leliana said without a hint of compromise in her voice. "You have been unconscious for hours. They will be fine, and they will discover if there are any clues to be found about where Branka went from here."

"And if they don't?" Talia relaxed, slumping back against Leliana, hating the fact that she was right, but unable to deny the incredible lassitude that gripped her; she wasn't even sure she could stand up without assistance.

"Then we leave this horrible place, and the dwarves must make up their minds without the assistance of a Paragon," Leliana replied, adding before Talia could protest, "We will not wander down here blindly, waiting to be overwhelmed by darkspawn. You are well away from your Calling, and I'll not lose you like this. Not now."

"And if they do?" Her own safety was the farthest thing from Talia's mind, but the notion of returning to Orzammar held a definite appeal.

The blue eyes softened in resignation. "I won't even pretend to think that I could keep the two of you from going forward," she said softly, before her tone grew resolute again, "but you will not send me back!"

"No." Talia shook her head, not without regret. "There's no one that I would trust to protect you on the journey back." She had brought Leliana into this danger; she would protect her.

Leliana was silent for a long moment. "I killed that poor boy," she said in a low voice.

"You gave him mercy," Talia replied, reaching up to stroke her lover's cheek, "as Hessarian did for Andraste. You did nothing wrong. I should have been the one to do it."

The Orlesian shook her head. "You have never killed outside of battle. I would not have you burdened with such a grim memory, but..." She trailed off, eyes staring into the darkness. "Promise me that you will not let me end up like him," she said at last in a broken whisper. "I would sooner be dead than condemned to such a fate."

Talia closed her eyes, hating the duty that would keep pushing her forward, even in the face of this unknown threat to her bard. "I won't let them take you," she swore, knowing that Leliana was asking for more than that.

"That's not enough!" the redhead hissed. "You must promise to kill me, if it comes to that, if there is no other way. Promise me, Talia...if you love me."

"I -" The words caught in her throat, helpless tears blurring her vision. "I promise."

The bard's soft lips crashed into hers, desperate and demanding, and Talia's arms went around her, holding as tight as her weakened state would allow.

"Where's your armor?" she asked suddenly, drawing back slightly, realizing that they were both clad only in their nightshirts. "And mine, for that matter?" She hoped she hadn't lost too much of it in the water, but focusing on that was preferable to thinking about the fates that could await them in the darkness if they pressed onward.

"Most of it made it out with you," Leliana answered, calmer now. "It will take a bit of time to repair the straps...I cut them to get it off of you." She ducked her head. "I panicked. You...weren't breathing, and the leather was wet, and I -"

"It's all right," Talia assured her with another kiss. Straps could be fixed easily enough, and she wasn't about to argue about methods taken to save her life. "You said that most of it made it out; what didn't?"

"Your helmet and shield, gauntlets and gloves," she replied.

Talia winced, but it was not as bad as it could have been. The helmet that she had acquired in Honnleath would be the most difficult to replace, but - "Starfang?" she asked, feeling her stomach clench nervously. If she'd lost her gloves, there was no way that she had kept hold of the sword. "Did it -"

"You dropped that on the ground before you fell in," the bard said reassuringly, guiding her hand to the hilt of the sheathed blade beside the blankets.

Talia let out a sigh of relief. That would have been irreplaceable. "What about your armor?" Leaving the sword where it was, she let her fingers drift along a bare leg, smiling at the sudden intake of breath.

"Well, you were wet and chilled, and Wynne recommended body heat to warm you up." Leliana gave her a wan smile. "Zevran did offer, mind you."

"I'm sure," Talia murmured, nuzzling gently at the soft line of her lover's neck before slumping against her with a defeated sigh. "Just my luck," she grumbled. "I've got you alone and nearly naked for the first time in more than a week, and I'm too weak to move."

"Hmmm." The throaty hum sent an anticipatory shiver down the Warden's spine. "I'm sure that I could - what's wrong?"

The shiver of anticipation had been interrupted by awareness of a new presence. "Darkspawn." The word escaped her in little more than a breath, and when a growl began in Brego's chest, she silenced him with a touch. "Cover the stove."

Leliana slipped from beneath the blankets and lowered the hood over the stove, plunging the world into utter blackness. Talia reached out blindly, groping in the darkness until she found Leliana's hand and pulled the bard to her, their arms going around each other, each mouth beside the other's ear.

"How many and where?" Leliana's whisper was steady, but Talia could feel her heart hammering beneath her tunic, matching the force of her own racing pulse.

The Warden forced herself to calmness, to concentration. "Across the gorge," she whispered back at last. "Maybe in the cavern just before this one. And...two, I think."

Only two. At any other time, she would have taken them on alone without a thought, even without her armor, but now, when she couldn't even draw a normal breath without pain, when her limbs felt too heavy to move, she found herself praying for the first time since her Joining that they would move on before they got close enough to sense her.

Darkspawn weren't as sensitive to the presence of the Grey Wardens as she and Alistair were to them...a fortunate fact that they regularly used to their own advantage, but if they got much closer, they would feel her. Only two. If they chose to attack, the odds were good. If, on the other hand, they called for reinforcements, if there were a larger force lurking just beyond the reach of Talia's senses...

"You have to go," she told Leliana. "Find the others, bring them back." She knew the words were useless, had to say them anyway.

The bard shook her head. "I will not leave you." Her heart still raced, but her voice was level, with a hint of steel beneath. "You are not strong enough to fight them, if they come."

There was no censure in her words, but Talia still felt a sinking mixture of shame and a helplessness that she had not known since Highever. Brego shifted restlessly, and she draped an arm over his shoulders, straining outward with her mind, waiting for...there...the faintest pricking at the edge of her awareness, the sudden sense of recognition.

"They're coming," she whispered, fear wrapping icy fingers around her heart. She reached out in the darkness, seeking Starfang's hilt, but Leliana caught her hand.

"It is my turn to protect you, my Warden," she murmured. "You can feel where they are at, yes?"

She could indeed feel where they were at: entering this cavern, cautious but curious: following the taint in her blood as she had followed the taint of more darkspawn than she could count. Two hurlocks; she could discern that now. Only two, but she feared them more than she had the the hordes that she had first found herself facing at Ostagar. She hadn't cared then, whether she lived or died, and while that was no longer true, her own death in battle was not so terrible to contemplate, compared to the horror of dying trapped beneath the water.

But Leliana...what would happen to her, once Talia was dead?

"I can," she said at last, "but -"

A finger to her lips silenced her. "When they have crossed the bridge and drawn within thirty paces, remove the hood from the stove and release Brego." The shadow of fear had left her; her voice burned with a resolve as bright as the sun. "Can you do this, my love?"

Talia felt a fresh wave of shame that Leliana would even need to ask, but the question was a valid one. At thirty paces, the darkspawn would be able to see them, light or not. If she could not manage this simple task, the hurlocks would be upon them in the darkness. She flexed her right arm experimentally, remembering the heft of the hood. "I can," she said at last.

The bard nodded, pressing a kiss to Talia's lips and whispering, "The righteous stand before the darkness, and the Maker shall guide their hand. We shall not fail, my love."

Then she slipped away in silence, leaving Talia with Brego. Shifting sideways cautiously, the warrior reached out until her fingers touched the top of the hood. Even though it was insulated, it was still warm to the touch; she brushed over the surface until her fingers slipped beneath the handle.

Behind her, she heard the faintest creak as a bow was drawn and held taut. She waited, the silence growing to a roar in her ears, accompanied by the thunder of her heart, until she heard it: the first cautious scuffle of a foot on stone. She felt Brego tense beneath her arm and hugged him closer, straining with her mind as well as her ears, feeling them take the first wary steps onto the stone arch, feeling it as they caught Leliana's scent for the first time: untainted, living, female.

_Female._

That single concept boiled up from both minds like a mass of writhing worms, accompanied by a sudden urgent imperative as alien as it was powerful. There was nothing of sex in what Talia sensed from them, but as they moved across the bridge, more swiftly now, barely registering the scent of the mabari, their purpose shifted from curious to predatory in the space of heartbeats. The tainted one had become secondary: they would kill it and take the female...take Leliana...take her bard, and Talia came within a breath of releasing Brego and reaching for Starfang.

She resisted the temptation, closing her eyes and giving her head a shake to clear it of the unsettling doubled awareness, pulling her mind back until she could once more sense only their proximity.

Close...almost too close, she realized, and moving even faster now, their footfalls audible on the stone.

Her fingers curled tight around the handle, and she yanked the hood upward hurriedly, releasing Brego with a single "Go!".

The bluish light was dim: part of the stove's design was to provide heat with minimal illumination to draw the eye, but the faint glow that it threw into the inky blackness was enough to reveal the tall shadows rushing toward them from the bridge. A moment later, the bowstring sang out behind her; another moment, and fire blossomed in the chest of the nearest hurlock, casting the stones and craggy walls into a wildly dancing play of shadow and golden light as it staggered sideways and fell, the smell of burning flesh quickly overtaking the darkspawn stench.

The second pulled up short, realizing belatedly that its quarry was not helpless. Leliana's second shot only nicked its arm, the arrow bursting into flame as it skewed off and shattered against a stone, and then Brego was upon it with a snarl, his weight bearing it to the ground as his jaws sought its throat.

Behind her, Talia heard the bow clatter to the ground, and Leliana ran forward with a dagger in each hand. The Warden immediately let the hood drop to the side and twisted, her fingers seeking her sword, mind screaming for battle, but by the time she had found the blade and struggled to her feet, it was over.

Brego backed out as the bard deliberately drove her daggers into the chest of the downed hurlock, though the dark blood dripping from his muzzle made it likely that the precaution was unnecessary. Straightening, Leliana turned and did the same to the one that her arrow had felled, then made her way somewhat unsteadily back to Talia.

The Warden let Starfang go and held out her arms; the daggers slipped from Leliana's fingers as the bard stumbled forward into the embrace.

"It's all right." Talia guided them both to the ground, a trip that her legs were only too eager to undertake. "You did it, love. You did it."

"Are there more?" Leliana demanded, wild fear and steely determination fighting for possession of her voice.

"No." Talia held the Orlesian close as the tremors that she had refused to surrender to before wracked the other woman's body. Her hands moved over Leliana's back and shoulders in soothing caresses, feeling the breakneck pace of her heart, hearing the keening edge in each harshly drawn breath. She reached out her mind again, held it for several long moments, but there was only silence in the blackness beyond the light of the stove.

"No more," she confirmed, drawing her fingers through the tangled red hair as the trembling eased, and the panicked rhythm of heart and lungs slowed. Leliana's arms went around her tight: protective and possessive and terrified all at once. Brego approached after taking a long drink from the water pail and giving his head a considerate shake; each woman reached out and wrapped an arm around the mabari, taking strength from him and each other.

They remained that way until Alistair and the rest returned with Branka's journal.

* * *

It was just armor, right?

In the day and a half it had taken her to recover fully from her near drowning, Alistair had worked patiently to replace the leather straps that Leliana had cut through. It was piled together neatly, the deep blue of the enameled silverite gleaming faintly in the light cast by the staffs, waiting for her to put it back on...almost challenging her, it seemed.

Talia approached it warily, trying again to dispel the sense of dread. She'd been wearing armor since first pulling Fergus' chain-mail hauberk over her head at the age of nine, and the Warden Commander's plate that had once belonged to Sophia Dryden had come to feel as comfortable as a second skin over the past few months.

Before it had nearly killed her.

She could still hear the water flowing through the gorge a few yards away, and combined with the gleam of the armor, the sound made her stomach clench in painful apprehension. She could still feel it pulling her down, the cold water surrounding her, tossing her like a toy -

Her eyes flew open. _Stop it! Just put it on, damn it! You've done it a hundred times!_ She could feel the rest watching her, knew that if she turned around, their eyes would all be on their own respective tasks, but she could feel their scrutiny.

She was their leader. She had to keep going.

She closed her eyes again. The water. The darkness. The _weight_.

"I can help, if you would like." She turned to find Leliana beside her. The bard had already donned her own armor; Mikhael's eldest son had used the dragon scale to craft a tough but flexible set of leathers that fit her closely without hampering her movement. Zevran wore a similar set, dyed green where Leliana's was shades of blue, but enough grey tint in both colors to allow their wearers to blend into the shadows. It was likely the strongest leather armor that could be made, but Talia would still have seen the bard clad in plate, had she been given her way.

Or at least, she would have before.

Part of her wanted to accept Leliana's offer, but this was something that she needed to do, had to do. Swallowing hard, she shook her head, managing a smile as she replied, "Thanks, but I'd better do it on my own."

Taking a deep breath, she bent swiftly to pick up the harness that the leg plates hung on. Piece by piece, she secured it, the weight seeming to double with each strap buckled. By the time she had lifted the breastplate over her head, her hands were trembling, and the sheer mass of the silverite plate, along with the unwanted memories, felt enough to buckle her knees. She didn't object when a gentle pair of hands pushed hers away and completed the job of securing the front and back halves of the breastplate together.

The tremors only intensified as Leliana helped her don the rest of her armor; her heart was hammering so hard that she wouldn't have been surprised to feel it vibrating through the plate, and each breath had to be dragged in and out of her lungs against a chest that fought to seize up with panic. Maker, why had she never noticed before how _heavy_ it all was?

At last, it was done. She stood as though rooted to the stone, feeling sweat trickling down her neck and soaking into her clothes, as the bard settled her sword belt in place around her waist. She'd had spare gloves in her pack, but the gauntlets were going to be harder to replace. The helmet that they'd recovered from the spiders' nest was a bit too big; extra padding had made it workable. The darkspawn shield had required adjustments before it fit on her arm, and it was still not quite comfortable, but she rather liked the brutal spikes that adorned its face.

She left it laying on the ground for now, however, her eyes drawn inexorably to the gorge as her heart rate ratcheted up yet another notch.

"Talia?" Leliana put a restraining hand on her arm as she took a step toward the rushing water, fighting against a windpipe that seemed determined to narrow down to a finger's width and feet that felt as though they were encased in lead.

"I have to do it," she rasped out, forcing another step. "I have to!" They could find themselves near water again...fighting beside water, even, and she could not let herself freeze up then. She had to face this down, here and now. She'd swum like a fish as a child; she could still swim, damn it.

_If you're not pulled down by your own armor._

_Stop it!_

A hand slipped into hers, cool and steady fingers lacing with her own. "I will be with you, then," Leliana promised. "I will not let you fall in again."

It was ridiculous. Leliana had to know that there was no way she could prevent such an occurrence. Talia certainly knew it; she'd pull the bard in with her, and yet, the words and the touch steadied her, giving her the strength to take the last few steps to the edge of the gorge.

The water was barely visible: a swirling blackness that was somehow even deeper than the darkness in the caverns beyond. Alive and hungry. Waiting for her. Talia stared downward, hearing the water, feeling its whisper along her spine. She forced herself to stand as the fear twisted its way through her, lancing through heart and lung, muscle and nerve, pushing them until she felt as though she would explode within her own skin...and then ebbing away, like a fire that had out-burned its fuel source.

She took a breath: shaky, but deeper than any she'd managed so far. Let it out. Drew another. Her eyes lifted from the water, turned upstream to the vague shape of the stone arch.

"The bridge?" Leliana asked before she could speak, and when she nodded, the bard led her forward, step by step, until they stood together at the center of the arch, shaking her head when Wynne started to move forward with her staff and its light. She could barely see even the stone beneath her feet, let alone the water below, but the sound surrounded her, open air to either side and only this narrow path before and behind. If she stumbled now...

The fear returned, but its claws did not sink as deep, nor hold as tight, and it subsided more quickly than it had before, leaving a ghost of unease in its wake...but nothing that she could not push past, and the weight of her armor eased until it was once more the simple burden that she remembered.

Talia turned her eyes to Leliana. She could barely see the bard's face in the gloom, but she knew that the blue eyes were watching her, knew that in them, she would see her lover's own fears, pushed aside to help Talia face hers.

"Thank you," she said, her voice low but steady; she led the bard from the bridge, then drew her close, hoping that her kiss could convey what she knew she would never have sufficient words to express.

"You are my light," she whispered when they drew apart.

"As you are mine, my love," Leliana replied, closing the distance again.

"It's not that dark," Morrigan groused, though her voice did not have its usual disdainful edge.

Talia laughed softly, stealing a final kiss before turning her eyes from her lover to her friends. "All right, then. Let's go find your wife, Oghren."


	43. Broodmother

_**First day, they come and catch everyone.** _

If you had asked Morrigan before the group had entered Orzammar what her notion of a fate worse than death would be, 'To be caged' would have come to her lips without hesitation. She had been a prisoner of sorts with her mother, but her movements had by and large been unrestricted, once the need for suitable caution had been sufficiently impressed upon her.

The idea of being truly imprisoned, her movements confined to a cage, able to see the world, but not reach it, had seemed to her to be the pinnacle of indignities, the worst imaginable torment. Then they had passed through the great iron doors of the dwarven kingdom, and the constant awareness of the fact that an entire mountain lay overhead was constantly pressing in on her, mitigated only by the dwarven tendency to overcompensation that resulted in high, vaulted ceilings over massive stone structures.

Even that dubious buffer had been left behind when they entered the Deep Roads, and it seemed to the witch that it was not time and war that had caused the crumbling of the tunnels and thaigs, but the crushing weight of the stone itself closing in. She kept the worst of her claustrophobia under tight control, but decided that being caged would be vastly preferable to being buried alive.

And now, she feared that she was on the verge of discovering a fate that was infinitely worse than either.

_**Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat.** _

"Hespith!" Oghren roared. "Sod it all, quit hiding and get out here, woman! We need to find Branka!"

Stealth had been abandoned. The dwarf led, his stone sense warning him of treacherous areas where loose rock was ready to fall, or where what seemed a tunnel ended in solid wall. Talia and Alistair moved behind him, their faces set in near-identical expressions of grim purpose. Shale and Sten brought up the rear; even in the urgency of their pursuit, Talia made sure that Morrigan and Leliana were protected.

_**Third day, the men are all gnawed on again.** _

Stone precisely carved into hard angles and bold runes had given way to the smooth walls of natural passages that pressed too close, forcing them at times to squeeze through one at a time. And then, that had given way to...something else.

Fleshy tendrils roped their way over ground and walls, pulsing as if to some great heartbeat and glistening with moisture in the light cast by her staff. Every few feet, there was a swelling: a bulge the size of a melon here, a good sized dog there, and there yet another as large as a man, the thinly stretched membrane nearly translucent, showing the dark fluid within and something else: a shape that moved sluggishly within, visible yet indistinct. Even Sten avoided touching them.

_**Fourth day, we wait and fear for our fate.** _

One of the pulsing sacs burst as they passed, gouts of dark fluid splashing the floor and walls of the tunnel, the glistening arm of the genlock that emerged reaching clumsily for Leliana. The bard screamed, twisting away from the touch of the darkspawn, and Zevran darted in, his flashing blades ending its life as quickly as it had begun.

"Burn them." Talia stared at the ruptured pod and the dead genlock, her face twisted in revulsion and rage. "Burn them all."

The request was almost ludicrous, but Morrigan found herself obeying, taking turns with Wynne at directing fans of flame onto the bulges as they passed them. So this was how darkspawn were formed, she thought, her focus curiously abstracted as she watched the tainted flesh curl and blacken in the flames. Not from overly ambitious magisters twisted by the will of a vengeful deity, but from these fleshy wombs.

But...if these were wombs...

Her mind slid away from the thought as she burnt another to a crisp. She tried to distract herself with how insipid the Chantry wench had been with her screaming, how satisfying it ought to be to see one of the lies the Chantry fed its bleating flock proven wrong, but it did not work, because she knew that it had been no chance that the creature had been reaching for the bard, that it would have been reaching for Morrigan, had she been the closer, and she would likely have screamed just as loudly, had it touched her.

Because if these were wombs...

"Oghren, _find_ her," Talia ordered, glaring around them as the disembodied voice reverberated along the walls of the tunnel. "I don't give a damn how, just _do_ it!"

_**Fifth day, they return and it's another girl's turn.** _

Hespith was her name. They'd found her earlier that day, hunched over a pile of raw flesh that Morrigan preferred not to identify, talking to herself in a monotone singsong as she raised bite after bite to her cracked lips.

She was tainted, just as Ruck had been: her skin mottled and sagging, her expression dull, her eyes obscured by the silver haze, her mind plainly as ruined as her body. Still, she was the first living sign of Branka's expedition that they had encountered, and Morrigan had taken a perverse amusement in the fact that the filthy, perverted dwarf's wife had left him for this female.

Until Talia had finally convinced Hespith that she was more than a figure in a dream, and the dwarf had begun to talk: first the unnerving chant that echoed around them now, sometimes faint, sometimes clear, carried by the odd acoustics of the tunnels. Then the rest.

And all amusement, perverse or otherwise, had vanished as Hespith fled.

_**Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams.** _

Morrigan wanted to feel nothing but contempt for the broken dwarf. In the name of 'love', she had allowed herself to be led here, forced to depend upon her lover and her companions for defense against the darkspawn. Her lover had betrayed her somehow, and the rest had been taken by the darkspawn, and -

What?

Morrigan didn't know, didn't _want_ to know, because as contemptible as it seemed for Hespith to have put herself in such a position, to be so dependent upon others, was that not precisely what she herself had done? Trapped in this hellish darkness with miles of stone between herself and the sky, she knew well enough that she stood no chance at all without Talia and the others.

And now, _she_ was the one the darkspawn sought.

_**Seventh day, she grew as in her mouth they spew.** _

Hespith's words, toneless and flat, as though constant horror had wrung all capacity for emotion out of her. And even worse, those brief moments when the power of her memories overcame the numbness she had wrapped herself in, and a bleak, hopeless terror surfaced:

_"She became obsessed, that is the word but it is not strong enough. Blessed Stone, there was nothing left in her but the Anvil. We tried to escape, but they found us. They took us all, turned us. The men, they kill... they're merciful. But the women, they want. They want to touch, to mold, to change until you are filled with them."_

_**Eighth day, we hated as she is violated.** _

Leliana cried out and stumbled, curling up and trying to cover her ears. Talia was beside her in an instant, pulling her to her feet, her voice low and urgent, enough to get the bard moving again. No doubt, she'd known what it was to be violated in the Orlesian dungeon, but the dwarf's jumbled words suggested something far beyond even rape.

_"They took Laryn. They made her eat the others, our friends. She tore off her husband's face and drank his blood. And while she ate, she grew."_

They were running now, their shadows jumping crazily along the tunnel walls and the growths that had become steadily more numerous. They ignored the smaller bulges now, but the two Wardens and Oghren slashed open the largest of the sacs as they passed, pausing only long enough to be sure that the mages burned the twitching bodies that spilled out. Genlocks, all of them. And if these were the wombs...

_**Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin.** _

Cannibalism, while distasteful, was a viable means of survival if worse came to worst, but that would not account for the physical changes that the dwarf had intimated...unless they were hallucinations, the product of her madness? Morrigan wanted to believe that, but if the fleshy sacs were wombs -

_"She swelled and turned gray and she smelled like them. They remade her in their image. Then she made more of them."_

If these were the wombs, from what did they arise?

_**Now she does feast, as she's become the beast.** _

"Oghren, wait." Talia's steps slowed, and she reached a hand out to stay the dwarf as she and Alistair exchanged a glance, their expressions filled with doubt and a rising dread. "You feel it?"

He nodded, face pale and grim. "I've never felt anything like it...it's close, though." Their eyes lifted to the blind turn in the tunnel ahead, then Talia glanced back, looking at Leliana, but speaking to them all.

"Everybody, close up and stay tight."

They all obeyed, moving forward cautiously now, the first turn leading to another...and another. It took some time for Morrigan's nose to register the smell, so accustomed had she become to the darkspawn stench, with its pungent scent of corruption. The new odor was much the same, but deeper, heavier, with a fetid reek that brought a surge of bile to the back of the witch's throat: something reminiscent of the sewage that had polluted the alleys and backstreets of the Denerim slums, but ever so much more powerful. Excretions and rotting flesh mixed together into a singularly unappetizing stew and left to ferment.

The smell grew as they moved forward until it claimed the air and Morrigan marveled that she could not actually see it, so thick did it seem. Just ahead, the mabari sneezed and shook his head, and Alistair staggered to a halt, bracing a hand on the stone as he gagged convulsively.

"Maker's blood!" he groaned, his complexion almost green in the light of the two staffs. "What _is_ it?"

Talia wasn't retching, but she didn't seem far from it. She opened her mouth to reply, but Hespith's voice, which had gone silent for several minutes, rose again in its dirge, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

_**Broodmother...** _

"That does not sound good," Alistair muttered, pushing away from the wall and staring around apprehensively. "I don't get it, either. She said they took this Laryn, changed her somehow with -" he swallowed hard, not looking at either Leliana or Morrigan, "with what they did, but how could she be the one making more darkspawn if they come from _these_?" He gestured toward the fleshy, pulsating tendrils at their feet and the bulges that swelled every few feet. "And is she saying that _Laryn_ is the one causing that smell? You'd need a hundred dwarves to go without baths for a year to get that kind of stench!"

It was on the tip of Morrigan's tongue to offer the retort that the single dwarf who traveled with them regularly produced odors only slightly less offensive. Anything to keep from following his questions to the conclusion that her mind did not want to reach. And then she heard it.

The sound defied easy description, but the word that came first to mind was _wet_.

A sloshing, squelching noise of something moving through...not water, but something...thicker. Her gaze met Talia's, the Warden's eyes wide, confirming that she heard it, too.

Then the cry rose up, somewhere between a howl of agony and a laugh of utter lunacy, filled with fear and pain, hate and fury as thick and overwhelming as the stench. No darkspawn that they had encountered had ever made such a sound, and the witch felt it echoing in the marrow of her bones.

"Andraste's mercy," Wynne breathed, the first time she had spoken since Hespith had fled. The old woman was pale, and plainly weary, but she had kept pace during their increasingly urgent pursuit without faltering, and her face now settled into resolute lines. "Whatever they have done to her, we must end it."

Morrigan more than half expected the bard to rebel at the suggestion. The spirits knew that _she_ had no desire to move forward, but the only thing less tolerable than the fear that gripped her was the notion of letting it rule her. She doubted that the same thoughts were what motivated Leliana, but the Orlesian looked from Wynne to Talia and nodded grimly.

Forward, then, they would go. When their close formation brushed Morrigan against the dwarf, he offered no lecherous comment, nor so much as a sideways leer, and she knew without doubt then that their straits must be dire, indeed.

Ahead, the narrow passage angled yet again, then widened abruptly, the stench intensifying and the flickering light of flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. "Holy -" Alistair breathed as he stepped forward.

" - Maker," Talia finished as she emerged to stand beside him, both of them staring upward with expressions of stunned revulsion.

Morrigan did not want to see what could affect them so, but she would not be ruled by her fear. Steeling herself, she stepped ahead of the rest to stand behind the Wardens, and for several heartbeats, she simply stood, her mind refusing to accept the sight that her eyes assured her was before her, cast in flickering light by two large bonfires set on either side of the chamber. In those heartbeats, there was a peculiar, detached smugness at the surety that she now knew something that Flemeth did not: how the darkspawn were created.

" _They made her eat the others, our friends. She tore off her husband's face and drank his blood. And while she ate, she grew. She swelled and turned gray and she smelled like them. They remade her in their image. Then she made more of them."_

_Grew. Swelled._ The words were an almost ludicrously inapt understatement for the bloated monstrosity that filled the rear third of the chamber. Taller than two ogres, it was all leathery skin, glistening with secretions and folded around rolls of adipose. Twin rows of monstrous teats more suited to a sow than any two legged female swayed obscenely as the massive body shifted from side to side. No legs were visible beneath the mass of flesh, nor did it seem likely that any would be strong enough to provide true mobility, but from the swollen base of the body, multiple appendages protruded, some extending out of the chamber through the half-dozen tunnels that exited it, including the one from which they had just emerged. Bulges were visible every few feet: bulges that would swell and burst, giving rise to more darkspawn.

Other appendages lay along the floor of the cavern, undulating sluggishly in a thick layer of sludge that was the source of the stomach-churning stench: the creature's bodily wastes, oozing from some unseen orifice and mixed with the rotting remains of whatever it was fed. And something _had_ to feed it: Where the body had grown, the arms were almost tiny in comparison; it could not hope to reach even the floor of the cavern, could not move in search of prey, could not even fit in the largest of the tunnels that left the chamber. It was trapped here by its size, awash in its own filth, able to do nothing but eat and reproduce, and when Morrigan finally forced herself to look at the creature's face, she could see that it was hellishly aware of its own fate. Sanity had long since fled the twisted, distorted features, but the horror and the rage remained.

This...this had once been a dwarven female named Laryn, and if Flemeth had known even a hint of the fragmented tale that Hespith had related, if she had once seen one of these...things, deduced even a glimmering of the process by which it was created, then Morrigan would have been given a vivid description by her mother, with the same painstaking attention to detail that had been the hallmark of the other stories that had filled her childhood and taught her always to look for darkness and treachery, to expect it.

"Dear Maker, this cannot be!" The bard's voice was a hoarse whisper, eyes wide and face pale in the light of the flames as she pressed against Talia's back, peering around the warrior. Weeks earlier, days earlier...perhaps even only hours earlier, Morrigan would not have hesitated to point out the obvious: that if a caring Maker did exist, if He had not turned his back on the world, but gave evidence of His presence in seemingly mundane occurrences, He was currently ignoring the Deep Roads.

She said nothing, however, because the terrified disgust in Leliana's face and voice mirrored hers all too closely, and she knew that the other woman's thoughts had to be similar to her own: what would _she_ look like, should she share the dwarf's fate, how long would it take her to reach such a state, and at what point would her sanity be torn away like a leaf in a storm?

"Spread out." Talia's voice was flat, robbed of emotion, her expression one of grim resolve. "Wynne, Morrigan, Leliana, keep your distance." The witch doubted that the bard would argue the directive. "Everybody else with me." Her eyes met Morrigan's briefly, swept next to the old woman and the bard. "Fire first."

Morrigan nodded, fishing one of the lyrium potions from the pouch at her hip, vaguely aware of Wynne doing the same. The older mage did not have the same command of fire, but her hands wove their pattern in the air, words of power falling from her lips, and the ground on the far side of the chamber began to shudder and buckle beneath the monstrosity, rocks falling from floor and roof onto the fleshy body.

It screamed: an ululating cry of pain and rage, and abruptly, the appendages that had been moving slowly in the muck erupted upward, creating a writhing wall of tentacles that lashed out, curling around empty air and withdrawing.

"Maker, guide my hand!" The Orlesian's fear did not affect her skill with a bow: three arrows were in the air in the time that Morrigan took to draw breath to cast the spell. The missiles buried themselves in the leathery hide and burst into flames that licked hungrily at the mottled, sagging skin and added a new note to the high pitched wail: fear.

Morrigan's hands moved, shaping the power that the words of the spell called forth from her, controlling it as the heat built in her mind, then releasing it with a sharp gesture. The ball of flame seared past the tentacles and exploded against the massive form in a conflagration that threw heat all the way back to where they stood.

"Now!" Talia's shouted command could barely be heard over the screams of the broodmother, but the others moved when she did, spreading around the perimeter of the cavern and moving in quickly to confront the tentacles.

The waving appendages did not, for the most part, impede spell or arrow from reaching the monstrosity, so Morrigan set her back to a wall and allowed her attention to narrow down to the loathsome thing, hurling fire, ice and arcane energy at it in relentless waves, caught up in the need to obliterate it from existence, pausing only when her magic waned enough to require another lyrium potion.

Ahead of her, the melee fighters slowly but surely cut their way through the tentacles, aided by Wynne's healing, and the creature's screams changed pitch again; Morrigan could feel the change in the air, almost touch the sudden sense of command, summoning.

She shouted out a warning, echoed by Wynne, scant seconds before darkspawn began to pour into the chamber from the tunnels. The last of the tentacles was hacked through, the severed pieces continuing to thrash and writhe in the muck, and Talia charged forward, shouting over her shoulder:

"Alistair, Brego, Zevran, deal with the darkspawn! Wynne, help them! Everyone else, take it down!"

_It._ Not she. There could be no thought of what the beast had once been, no room for pity, and the witch found herself gratified that the Warden, normally too kind for the good of any of them, seemed to grasp this.

She was forced to abandon her position and move forward as a seething knot of darkspawn with Alistair at its center interceded between her and her target. A muttered spell as she strode past and the brush of her hand against a hurlock's arm sent electricity surging through the darkspawn, killing two outright and dazing the rest. She could ill afford to have a battle raging at her back, after all.

Talia, Sten, Oghren and Shale had engaged the broodmother head on, requiring her to select spells that targeted the creature directly; such spells generally drained less of her magic, but required more focus to cast. Arrows continued to fly, darting over the fighters' heads to pierce the hide of the massive torso and neck, ice or fire spreading from each missile as soon as it hit, the blades of the fighters opening up massive gashes through which fat and viscera bulged obscenely, and still the thing would not die! She gritted her teeth, casting spell after spell, watching the repulsive flesh stiffen with frost or shudder beneath the impact of arcane power. Her fingers dropped again to the pouch at her hip, closing on one of the two remaining lyrium potions.

Arms wrapped around her from behind, lifting her off the ground, the stench of the broodmother suddenly overwhelmed by the rank proximity of the hurlock whose fetid breath was hot against her neck. The lyrium tumbled from her fingers, and she tried to lash out with her staff, only to have it torn away. A genlock grasped her legs, and she felt herself being borne backwards, toward one of the tunnels, her scream of terror lost beneath the shrieks of the broodmother. It was dying...and a replacement was needed. She screamed again, trying to fight past the gibbering voice of fear to form the words of a spell, even though her magic was drained and it would be for naught. She was being taken, and they would feed her, change her, force her into a form of their choosing, and she would end her days in some distant cavern, shut away from the sky and screaming her madness into the uncaring darkness.

A stone shot through the air, smashing the skull of the genlock. It released her feet as it fell, and the shift in her weight caused her to slip in the hurlock's grip. She barely had time to blink before an arrow found the sudden opening, embedding itself in the beast's shoulder with a meaty thunk. She could feel the sudden cold spreading from the point of impact, and then _he_ was there, pulling her free and sending the hurlock staggering back into the stone wall with a sweeping blow from his shield.

She stumbled and fell to her knees, and so great was her relief at being freed that she barely noticed the putrid sludge oozing between her fingers and soaking into her robe. Moments later, a gauntleted hand reached down to her, and she took it without thought, allowing him to draw her to her feet. She swayed, the world suddenly tilting asunder, and he caught her before she could fall again, letting her lean into his chest and drawing his shield arm around her, offering support and shelter. She accepted both mindlessly, until the lightheadedness had passed and she became aware that the sounds of combat had ceased, Talia's voice the only one heard.

"It's all right, Leliana, it's dead. You can stop now. You can stop. It's dead, Leli, it's dead!"

She stepped away, not daring to look up at him. The broodmother was indeed dead, its massive form slumped and motionless, black blood from wounds too numerous to count glistening in the firelight. Its darkspawn defenders were likewise dead, and Talia had discarded her sword and shield. One of her hands covered Leliana's on the bow, the other on the arrow nocked to the string as she urged the bard to ease up on her pull. The arrow tumbled to the ground abruptly, and the redhead sagged into her lover's arms, shoulders trembling with silent sobs. Talia's face was ashen, her eyes wide and grave as they met Morrigan's in an unspoken question.

"I am fine," Morrigan heard herself say, her own voice sounding as though it came to her from across a distance, as though a part of her had been dragged into the tunnels, after all. She reached into her pouch, grimacing at the feel of the filth on her fingers when they closed around the last vial of lyrium, and when she withdrew it, her hands shook so badly that she could not manage the wax seal.

He took it from her silently, wiping it clean on his sleeve, breaking the seal and offering it back to her without a word. She took it just as silently, downing the potion quickly, feeling the lyrium rolling down her throat in a cool trickle, reaching her stomach and flaring throughout her body with a warm and welcome power, and for a moment, she had to fight the urge to behave as foolishly as the bard and immerse the dead hulk in one final burst of vengeful flame.

The urge passed, and she forced herself to look up, to meet his eyes. Neither spoke, but there was an agreement in that brief glance: she would not offer thanks, nor would he ask for it, and by the time they made camp tonight - or broke camp tomorrow, at the latest - they would once again be engaged in the verbal sniping that had become as much a part of her routine as her conversations with her mother had once been.

"That's where they come from." Hespith's voice, no longer distorted by the tunnels, was startlingly close, and a moment's search revealed the dwarf standing on a ledge overlooking the cavern. The flames from the pyres cast her slack features into an eerie light, and the silver sheen of her eyes was unnervingly prominent. It seemed impossible that she could see with such lesions, but her gaze shifted unerringly to each of them in turn, lingering the longest, it seemed, upon Leliana and Morrigan before coming to rest at last on Talia.

"That's why they hate us... that's why they need us. That's why they take us... that's why they feed us. But the true abomination... is not that it occurred, but that it was _allowed_. Branka... my love... The Stone has punished me, dream friend. I am dying of something worse than death. Betrayal."

Morrigan could not tell if her own lightning or the bard's arrow reached the dwarf first, nor could she put a precise name to the emotion that roiled through her as she struck. Pity? Fear? Revulsion? Rage? Perhaps a touch of all of these guided her actions, and she never asked the bard about her own motivations, but Hespith was dead by the time she tumbled into the sludge and lay in a broken heap, one silvered eye visible, open and sightless, seemingly fixed upon the witch.


	44. Comfort In The Dark

_Water condensed from the damp air dripped from the cold stones of the ceiling and ran down the iron bars, leaving tracks of rust that seemed to do nothing to diminish the strength of her prison. The moisture had seeped into everything: the dirty straw that served as her bed; the thin scrap of wool that was the only blanket they permitted her; the stale bread that was never enough to still her hunger; the torn and soiled remnants of her clothing that they allowed her to put on each time they finished with her, just so they could tear them off again the next time._

_She had forgotten what it was to be warm, dry, safe. Marjolaine's manor and her soft bed felt more like dreams now then memories of anything real. Reality was this cage of granite and iron, the cold damp that had sunken into her bones, the relentless gnawing of starvation and the equally relentless thrum of fear that filled her, running through her veins in the place of blood, it seemed sometimes, and drowning out the baffled ache of betrayal. Real was the sureness of the next round of torment: rough hands and sweaty, unwashed bodies pinning her down, even when she was too weak to fight back, coarse laughter and voices thick with cruel lust. Only after they had used her would the more conventional instruments of torture be brought out: the blades, the red-hot brands, the whips, other devices with exotic names and savage purpose._

_After, she would be left with her agony for a few hours, then healed so that the old pain would not dull her reactions to the next session. She had long ago screamed out all that she knew, but that was not what they wanted from her, and yesterday (or perhaps it had been the day before...or perhaps only a few hours ago. Time had lost all meaning in this place where darkness ruled and light was a harbinger of pain.) she had finally broken and given them what they sought, repeating the words of the confession as they gave them to her, swearing to the Maker that it was true and affixing her wavering signature to the piece of parchment that detailed her 'crimes'. She had not expected them to heal her after, but they had, and even the respite from the pain was a torment: a promise of more pain to come._

_She could hear them now. Her ears were attuned to the sounds of the dungeons: the screams and pleas of the tortured, the gibbering of the insane, the drip of water and, above all, the creak of the gate at the entrance to her cell block and the scuff of booted feet on stone._

_"No." The word escaped her in a whisper, and she pushed herself into a corner of her cell as the flickering light of the torches glistened on the damp stone, the light growing brighter. Her answer was a grating, unearthly laugh that resonated from the walls, and despite the fact that the betrayed girl in the cell had never heard such a laugh before, time folded upon itself, and her fear doubled, trebled, because she_ _**knew** _ _._

_"No!" Louder now, and she shoved herself backward with greater force, trying to press herself into the stone itself as the door to her cell creaked open and half a dozen hurlocks crowded in, burning eyes fixed on her and their mouths drawn up in that snarling rictus that sent a bolt of sheer terror through her._

_"No!" She tried to push backward again, but could not move, and when she looked down, she realized with horror that her body had become swollen and grey. Her arms and legs had transformed into fleshy tendrils that snaked between the bars and out of sight in the darkness, leaving her immobilized as the darkspawn advanced, clawed hands reaching out eagerly -_

_**"No! No, please, NO!"** _

"Leliana!" The voice in her ear was all but lost in the haze of fear and the thundering of her heart. All she felt was the strong arm around her, restraining her, and the hand over her mouth, stifling her screams. Darkness greeted her open eyes; she could not see her attacker, but her limbs obeyed her will, and she fought back with the strength of panic, striking, kicking, biting.

A hiss of pain, but the hand over her mouth did not move. "Leli, please! Wake up!" The voice kept talking: low, gentle, urgent, and slowly realization seeped through the fear.

Talia.

The wash of relief was almost immediately overwhelmed by dismay. "Talia, I'm sorry!" she gasped as the hand lifted from her mouth, her fingers moving to capture it, running over the skin, feeling the indentations left by her teeth, but no blood. "Maker, I'm sorry -"

"Shhh." A finger to her lips, and then arms slipping around her in the darkness, drawing her close, and she hung on desperately, burying her face in the Warden's shoulder, trying to banish the dream. _This is real. This is now. This -_

"Warden?" Oghren's voice, gruff and cautious, and when she turned her head, she realized that there was just enough light from the stove that she could see the barest shadow of his burly form.

"Just a nightmare." Talia's voice was calm, soothing, addressing the dwarf but speaking to Leliana, one hand smoothing hair away from the bard's face as she spoke. "She's awake now." Leliana heard the dwarf grunt an acknowledgment, saw his shadow tip a nod and move away.

Talia was no more than a shadow, either, even this close. She couldn't see her lover's face, and suddenly, Leliana _needed_ to see, needed something to replace the memory of those horrible, mirthless smiles. Her hands came up, fingertips brushing over the warrior's cheeks, tracing the lines of her lips, the angle of her jaw.

"Your hands are freezing," Talia muttered, catching them both in her own and drawing them down against her chest. " _You're_ freezing!"

"It was cold in the dream," Leliana murmured. "So cold."

"I'll get Wynne." The bard felt Talia shift, preparing to rise, and shook her head, curling her fingers into the Warden's tunic. They had fled the cavern, taking Hespith's body with them, getting as far away from it as they could before pausing to inter the dwarf beneath a cairn of stones. Then they had pressed on again until they had come to another branch of the underground river. There had been no discussion; every one of them was desperate to be free of the blood and stench of the broodmother. They had bathed in pairs, cleaning their armor and bodies as best they could with handfuls of sand from the bottom of the river. They had set up camp where they stopped, eating cold rations in stunned and exhausted silence, speaking only enough to set up the watch before retiring to their bedrolls. The Circle mage, in particular, had been all but dead on her feet, managing to eat only a handful of dried fruit before Talia had helped her to her blankets.

"No, I'll be all right." The chill of the dream would not leave her, but Talia was warm, and Leliana snuggled close, wrapping her arms around her and slipping her hands beneath the warrior's tunic, savoring the heat of her bare skin. _Real. This is real._ Talia gave a muffled yelp at the contact, but did not move away, gathering the blankets around them snugly, her hands rubbing briskly over Leliana's back, arms, shoulders, the friction sparking the first hint of warmth over her skin. Her body finally seemed to recognize that it was cold and reacted, violent shivers wracking her. For several minutes, neither of them spoke until she was warm again and the shivering abated.

"Do you feel anything?" she asked softly. Talia shook her head, knowing what the bard was asking.

"Nothing close," she replied.

"Will they seek us out?"

The Warden hesitated before answering. "I don't think so," she said slowly. "They pursue whatever crosses their path, but I've never seen them actively hunting anything."

"There is much that we do not know about them." Before they had entered the Deep Roads, the notion that the darkspawn might take captives had occurred to none of them, much less their reason for doing so. Anything seemed possible now, including that they would seek retribution for the death of the broodmother...or a replacement.

Talia's cheek brushed against her own, the Warden's breath warm on her ear as she spoke. "They can be killed. That is all that I need to know about them. They cannot hide from me, or take us by surprise, and I will not let them touch you."

There was comfort in her words, but fear of another sort, as well. "You must live, Talia. You and Alistair." Wynne was right. The last Grey Wardens of Ferelden could not indulge in romantic fancies, and Leliana was glad of it. Grey Warden or no, the idea of Talia getting killed to protect her was intolerable.

"I intend to." Talia's voice was calm, level, but there was the barest edge of tension beneath: the anger that fueled her resolve. "And I intend that you will, as well. I am not Branka."

"No. You are not." Leliana lifted a hand to her Warden's cheek. They had not spoken of it, but she had seen the bleak rage in Talia as she and Alistair had lifted Hespith's corpse into Shale's arms.

_"But the true abomination... is not that it occurred, but that it was allowed."_

"She betrayed them all," the bard mused softly. She'd barely allowed herself to examine the thoughts that had clamored in her mind after the fight against the broodmother, but here, with Talia's arms around her and the warrior's heartbeat thrumming a steady counterpoint to her own, it was safe to ponder them. Talia was neither Branka nor Marjolaine, and if the darkspawn did take Leliana, or even Morrigan, it would not be because it was allowed. "Gave them to the darkspawn. She must have thought it would gain her the Anvil, but how?"

Talia shook her head. "It doesn't matter. No reason is good enough. I'd give my own life to end the Blight, but I've no right to make that decision for any other."

"Military commanders order men to their deaths all the time," Leliana reminded her, fighting against the shiver that chased down her spine at how easily her lover spoke of self sacrifice.

"That's different," Talia said stubbornly. "A soldier knows that it's their duty to fight, and to die, if it comes to that. What Branka did...that's not what they followed her for."

"Do you think that she knew what would happen to the women?" Easier to think that the Paragon had believed that she was abandoning Hespith and Laryn to death alone, perhaps using them all to distract the darkspawn while she made her way past unnoticed. Easier that than imagining Hespith's thoughts as she watched her lover vanish into the dark and the darkspawn emerge, knowing...

"She knew," Talia replied flatly. "Maybe no more than we know, but enough to know that they wouldn't just be killed."

Enough, and not enough...and far too much. The imagination that had served Leliana well as a bard and minstrel was only too ready to fill in the blank spots. "How could one woman knowingly leave another to that fate? They did not just change Laryn. They...impregnated her somehow." The unthinkable possibility suggested by that single word pressed upon her, and she shuddered, her hold on Talia tightening, the touch anchoring her to the here and now in the impenetrable darkness that might otherwise have been that of an Orlesian dungeon.

"Your nightmare?" Talia's question was careful, and a gentle kiss to the bard's temple pushed the memories back further, to a safer distance.

"Yes." Leliana nodded, knowing that her Warden would not press her, but wanting to tell. Though dreams of her torments in Orlais came less often now than they had in the months immediately after her escape, they still returned, and Talia had been present for the aftermath of more than one. In the weeks since they had become lovers, she had told her in greater detail of what she had suffered at the hands of the guards. Talia never pushed for more than she was able to speak of, but simply being able to give voice to the memories that had been for so long endured in solitude, to wake from the nightmares to a protective embrace and whispered words of comfort, had lessened their power over her.

She wondered if Morrigan's sleep was haunted by what they had seen, and felt a moment of pity that the witch would undoubtedly endure the darkness of her dreams alone, but the solitude was of her own choosing. She tried to distance herself as she spoke, telling the dream as she would one of her tales, but she was still trembling by the time she had finished, her heart again hammering in her chest. "After I escaped in Orlais, one of the first things I obtained was pennyroyal," she whispered. "I drank the tea every day until I bled again. The idea of a child...by one of them, was intolerable, but this...I would go mad. I -"

"Hshhh." Talia's finger on her lips was followed by a kiss, tender and almost chaste, but it sent a new warmth swirling through the bard, and she responded with a long denied hunger, her fingers tangling in the Warden's hair as the kiss deepened, not letting go until they were both out of breath. "We don't know for sure what they did," Talia murmured, "and it doesn't matter, because I won't let them have you. We'll find Branka and be away from this place."

"You can't kill her, Talia." The anger was still there, beneath the reassurance: the implacable rage that had only been directed at Loghain and Howe to this point.

"Maybe." Talia's tone said plainly that she would make up her own mind when the time came. "If she agrees to help us, but if that's what dwarves consider a Paragon -" She broke off, sighing softly. "We need them, but if I ignore what she did because of that, am I any better than she is?"

"Yes." The reply came without hesitation. "Because none of those who follow you need fear betrayal."

"There is that," Talia conceded, though she sounded far from convinced. She fell silent for several moments, and when she spoke again, her voice was so low that Leliana could barely hear her, even as closely as they were twined together. "I dreamed, too. I dreamed that it was you on that ledge, and my hands on the bow. That I'd failed you and that all I could do was give you mercy."

"You didn't fail me." Leliana's fingers stroked over Talia's cheeks. "You haven't, and you won't." She kissed her Warden gently, and again comfort flared into desire. It seemed an eternity since they had last made love in their room in Orzammar, but -

"The others," she murmured as the warrior's mouth brushed along her neck, easily finding the most sensitive spots. Need warred with caution. "They are close." Not so very close, though. Talia had laid out their blankets at a spot well away from the stove, and Leliana wondered if she'd had this in mind when she did.

"You're a bard," Talia replied in between kisses, the lack of concern in her voice confirming the Orlesian's suspicions. "Aren't you supposed to be stealthy?"

"I can be as quiet as I need to be," she retorted, just barely managing to prove it by suppressing a gasp as Talia's hands slipped beneath her tunic, moving over the skin of her belly in a teasing caress. A few more touches like that, and she likely wouldn't care if they could be overheard in Orzammar, but the call for discretion added a challenge and turned the darkness from foe to ally. "But the Grey Wardens of my acquaintance aren't known for their stealth."

It was an old jest between them: it was admittedly hard to sneak in plate armor, and even dear, cautious Alistair preferred to engage foes directly, rather than attempt a covert approach. The banter was as welcome and warming as the intimacy, a comforting reminder that the world they had left behind was still there, and with a truth darker than her worst nightmares faced and vanquished, she began to dare believe that she would leave this darkness and walk again beneath the sky.

Talia's response was more felt than heard, the Warden's lips brushing against the bard's just before claiming them: "Teach me, then."


	45. Deadly Song

They had officially left 'creepy' in the dust some days back.

Even before they had encountered the broodmother, Alistair had decided that the Deep Roads were creepier than Soldier's Peak and Haven combined, and now… He wondered if the Grey Wardens knew how the darkspawn increased their numbers, if that was just another of the little details that Duncan had not had the chance to fill him in on before getting killed. Somehow, he didn't think so. He'd heard enough talk of the Deep Roads from the other Wardens, and none of them had even hinted at such knowledge. He did wonder now if that was what happened to the older Wardens at the time of their Callings, why they had the nightmares: finally touching the minds of countless broodmothers deep underground, begging for release from their madness. Cheery thought, that one.

Even without the broodmothers, though, he understood why the Wardens chose this place of eternal darkness for their last fight; why they would willingly forsake the sun and sky to die in these lightless caverns, their bodies lost forever. It was more than the fact that this was where the darkspawn were; the creatures' uncontested mastery of this subterranean world had imparted to it a wrongness that he could feel in bone and blood, a sense of obscenity and affront that made him itch to wipe it from existence.

Not that he'd had any chance lately. They'd encountered a couple of smaller groups since finishing off the broodmother, but for the last two days (their time was reckoned by Oghren; to the rest of them, the days and nights had long since been blurred to indistinctness by the unchanging dark), they had seen nothing but a few groups of the deep stalkers (which made for surprisingly good eating, as long as one didn't think too much about what they looked like when they were alive.) Perhaps it should have been reassuring, but it seemed to be having the opposite effect: all of them were on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop, as it were, and now he was becoming aware of a faint pressure in his mind. His eyes met Talia's and she nodded grimly: she felt it, too.

Darkspawn. A lot of them, somewhere ahead.

If nothing else, being in the Deep Roads had helped both of them refine the sense that all Grey Wardens possessed. It was like overhearing voices in your mind: when there were more of them, they were easier to sense at a greater distance, but all you got was an indistinct feeling, like the constant murmur that ran through a crowd. Fewer were not sensed until they were closer, but the connection was sharper; Talia had reported that she had been able to sense the thoughts of the pair that she and Leliana had encountered with unnerving clarity.

_Female._

A shiver slid down his spine at the memory of Talia's description, made even more pronounced by the fact that now they knew the reason for the interest. He didn't give in to the urge to glance back; Morrigan had refused to discuss her feelings on the matter since the fight with the broodmother, cloaking herself in clinical indifference and lashing out viciously when Wynne had tried to coax her into opening up. It had been the older mage's vigilance, her warning shout and quickly cast spell that had alerted the rest of them to the darkspawn dragging the witch away from the cavern and slowed them enough to allow Alistair to reach them. A few more seconds, and they would have been out of sight in the darkened tunnels that they knew far more surely than any surfacer or dwarf could ever hope to.

He'd seen the naked terror on the witch's face, and the fact that she had accepted any comfort from him, however briefly, was an indication of just how thoroughly she'd been shaken. Not that he could blame her, but he'd still known better than to tell her as much; instead, he'd done his part by responding to her usual verbal barbs with his usual quips. He could practically do that in his sleep by now, and there was a sense of normalcy to it that was almost comforting, as weird as it might sound. It was certainly easier to insult and be insulted by Morrigan than to figure out what to do when she was leaning against him shaking like a newborn lamb.

Another glance passed between he and Talia, and they stopped, turning to those who followed them. "Darkspawn ahead," he told them. "Quite a few, from the feel of it."

"How far?" Leliana was outwardly calm; only the paleness of her cheeks betrayed her. She seemed to have defeated the fear that had nearly immobilized her in the days after their first encounters with the darkspawn in the Deep Roads, but she was seldom far from Talia, either awake or asleep. He envied them, in a way. Not in a romantic fashion, but he knew that he was not the only one in the group afflicted with nightmares; the notion of having someone right there when you woke up in the dark with your heart trying to leap up your throat had more than a little appeal. The only ones that he hadn't heard some indication of nocturnal disquiet from were Sten, Shale and Morrigan.

"I'm…not sure," he admitted hesitantly. "Either a lot, not too far ahead, or –"

"Or a lot more than a lot, further on," Talia finished for him, holding the bard's eyes briefly before looking to each of the others. "I've never felt anything like this."

"Is it another broodmother?" Wynne asked, giving voice to the thought that likely haunted all of them.

Talia glanced uncertainly at Alistair, then shook her head. "I don't think so. It doesn't feel like the other one did. Just feels like…we're on the edge of a crowd. A big one. I can hear the voices, but no words, no clear thoughts. No sign that they're aware of us yet, either. Can we go around them, do you think?" she asked him. There was no question of trying to engage whatever lay ahead; even if it was just a lot - as opposed to a lot more than a lot – taking them on with their small group would be suicide. And yet, they'd found traces of Branka's passage in these tunnels: chips in the walls where she had sampled the rock and marked her way.

He glanced in turn at Oghren, who stared into the darkness, his bushy brows drawn down in concentration. "There's a chasm ahead," he said at last, then snorted. "Chasm. Sodding canyon, it feels like. They could be in it, so if we found a way over…" He trailed off, shrugged. "All we can do is try."

Talia nodded. "Lead, then," she told him, glancing back at the rest. "Lights as dim as you can get them," she ordered Shale and the two mages. The illumination from crystals and staffs dimmed until only the faintest glow reflected from Oghren's armor as he set off in the direction that no sane person would surely go.

Well, no one had ever said that any of this was sane. And yet, they'd done so much of a task that had seemed utterly hopeless when they'd been standing outside of Flemeth's hut so many months ago. Arl Eamon was alive and rallying the Bannorn; the Dalish and the mages had pledged their support. All that remained was to bring the dwarves into the alliance, and to do that, all they had to do was sneak past a seething mob of darkspawn to find a crazy and utterly ruthless Paragon who might or might not have made it past the darkspawn herself.

Maker forgive him, but he almost hoped she hadn't. It would be the only thing that could possibly approach justice for what she'd done.

Time passed: an hour, maybe more as they moved cautiously behind Oghren, and with every step, it became clearer to Alistair that 'a lot', or even 'a lot more than a lot' didn't even begin to describe what lay ahead of them. The pressure in his skull intensified, the taint in his own blood responding with a roiling that he'd not experienced since Ostagar. And it was only getting worse. The murmuring sensation had risen to a clamor, and still he could make out nothing beyond the noise itself. Maker's blood, how many _were_ there?

Beside him, Talia stumbled and dropped to one knee, bringing the hand that held her sword up to press at the side of her head. "So many!" she groaned, and when she lifted her head, her eyes were wide and wild. "So damn many, Alistair!"

Alistair felt a new alarm rising. Talia had been too new to the Wardens at Ostagar to sense the darkspawn; she'd never had to deal with being close to this many, and he could well remember the raw panic that had tried to take him the first time he'd been faced with well over a hundred of the creatures and the way the taint in him had risen up, making him ready to do anything to quiet it. If Duncan and the others hadn't been there to calm him, he would have likely have done something rash…and _he_ didn't have berserker tendencies.

"Talia," he crouched beside her, trying to keep his own voice calm, level, "it's all right. If we can't go around them, we'll go back. It's…all…right." The last words were measured, intense, because he could see the old fury rising in her eyes, savage and unthinking, ready to lash out.

"Talia," Leliana began, crouching on the Warden's opposite side, blue eyes bright with fear as she reached up to slide her lover's helmet off, but Talia batted her hand away, nearly knocking both of them down as she shot to her feet with a wordless growl.

"Talia, no!"

"Sten!" Alistair echoed the bard's frightened cry with his own shout, but before the qunari could move to restrain Talia, Oghren had pushed his way forward. He regarded Talia for a moment, then swept his right hand up and around in a backhand that caught Talia on the side of her helm with a loud clang and sent her reeling against the cavern wall.

Oh, there were so many reasons why that couldn't be a good idea, but before Alistair or any of the other stunned onlookers could speak, the dwarf stepped up to the dazed Warden again, grabbing the side of her helmet and yanking her down to eye level.

"Save it fer the sodding fight!" he growled at her. "All the piss 'n vinegar in the world don't do no good if ya don't know when to sodding _use_ it, understand?"

Talia stared at him in confusion, giving her head a little shake. Anger flared anew in her eyes as she focused on the dwarf, and Alistair felt his heart sink, but the fires dimmed quickly. "Yeah," she said at last. "I understand." She pushed herself away from the wall, sheathed her sword and grasped the dwarf's shoulder. "Thanks."

"You didn't have to hit her!" Leliana rounded angrily on Oghren, but Talia stepped between them.

"He did," she replied gently, reaching up to tip the bard's face this way and that, clearly worried that she'd struck out in her near loss of control. "I'm sorry." She glanced to the others, meeting Wynne's eyes with a look of shame. "I'm sorry."

The mage shook her head. "I can only imagine what you and Alistair are going through," she said kindly. "And you did regain control, even if it took a bit of an unorthodox method."

Talia nodded, her face drawn and weary as she turned back to Alistair. "Tell me it gets easier to handle," she pleaded with him in a low voice.

"It does," he promised her earnestly. "It still makes my skin crawl, but once you know what to expect, it's not quite so hard."

She nodded again, stepping away from Leliana's supporting arm and staring into the blackness ahead, her eyes growing distant. After several moments, she drew a deep breath and turned back to them; Alistair could still see the same unease that he felt, but control was back in her eyes. "Lead on," she told Oghren, sliding her sword from its sheath once more. As it turned out, she'd have had a long run ahead of her if she had lost control. It was yet another hour before Oghren announced that they were close. What had begun as a faint stench of darkspawn had increased until was nearly overwhelming – though it still was not as nauseating as the stink of the broodmother had been.

Alistair was breathing hard, sweat pouring off of him as the taint roiled and seared within, and a glance at Talia showed her to be in much the same condition. When Oghren stopped the group and moved ahead alone to scout, both of them sagged against the stone walls, legs trembling beneath them. Leliana wet a cloth with water from one of the skins and gently wiped the sweat from first one pale face, then the other.

Talia glanced at him, a gleam of dark humor visible beneath the strain as she slipped her helmet off. "We're supposed to be leading the charge, huh?"

He gave a shaky laugh. "So I've been told. Maybe we're just supposed to fall on them." He pulled off his own helmet. It felt like he'd been wearing it for days. Maybe he had.

"Gonna be a long fall, then," Oghren grunted as he emerged from the gloom. "It's a sodding canyon, all right, and they're at the bottom of it, but –" He broke off, and Alistair realized that the dwarf actually looked shaken.

_Maker, that can't be good._ "What is it? Is there no way across?"

Oghren shook his head. "Nah, there's a natural arch maybe half a mile to the north that looks like it'll do, but –" He broke off again and shook his head. "You'd better just come'n see for yourselves."

He exchanged a wary glance with Talia, then both of them pushed away from the wall to follow as the dwarf turned and started back the way he had come. The caverns they'd been traveling opened up; Alistair couldn't see the roof in the blackness overhead, but he could feel the sudden expanse of air above him, rather than stone pressing close. Maybe he was developing his own sort of stone sense. Ahead, he could see the near edge of the canyon , the other side as lost to sight as was the ceiling. It stretched away and out of sight to either side, and as they drew closer, he could see a glow rising from below. They dropped to their bellies to crawl the last few feet, and the sight that greeted his eyes when he peered over the edge made his heart seize up in fear.

Torches. Not hundreds of them. Thousands. Too many to count, snaking away and out of view along the bottom of the canyon to either direction. Below them, faces cast into an eerie play of golden light and blackest shadow, marched the darkspawn: genlocks and hurlocks, ogres and shrieks, emissaries and alphas. All of them moving together, with a purpose he'd seen only once before, at Ostagar.

Beside him, Talia swore and scooted back from the ledge. "That's why we haven't run into any," she muttered, breathing hard. "They're all down there. Where are they going?"

"South," Oghren said at once. Both the Wardens knew what that meant.

"The Wilds," Talia whispered.

Alistair felt sick. They were moving to the south now, but once they reached the surface in the waste that they'd made of the Korcari Wilds, once they assembled, they could move north overland, destroying everything. They were almost out of time.

Then he felt it: the powerful presence that he'd only sensed in his dreams. Distant, but growing closer fast.

Very fast.

"Back! Everybody back!" Talia was already on her feet, shoving Oghren and Leliana back toward the cavern they'd emerged from. Alistair pushed at Sten and Morrigan, who for once chose not to argue, and the rest were already obeying, backing away quickly under their own power when the archdemon swept upward from the canyon in a gout of golden flame.

Beautiful. Terrible. Terrifying. The words tumbled over each other in his mind as his eyes took in the mighty wings, the lashing tail, the powerful body, the sinuous neck and the massive, triangular head with eyes burning red-gold in the darkness as it came to rest upon an outcropping of stone overhead. If the taint had responded strongly to the presence of the darkspawn, it was as nothing to the effect of the archdemon: a yearning, as for the heart's greatest desire almost in reach, and in his mind, a song of such power and beauty that it seemed not at all unlikely that the stone itself must move in response to its call. This was an old god given flesh, and his mortal heart both quailed before it and ached to go forward and worship its beauty and power.

He stared upward at it, lost between wonder and terror as it dipped its head downward and let out an almighty bellow that reverberated from the stone, answered from below by a war shout torn from countless throats. Beside him, he was barely aware of Leliana holding Talia's face in her hands, speaking to her in a low, urgent voice. A hand grasped his shoulder, pulling him around, and he found himself staring into golden eyes.

"Do not answer its call." Morrigan's voice was calm, cutting through the song and the darkspawn clamor. "Nor seek to slay it. It is not yet time. If you try, you will both go to your deaths and doom the land that you seek to save."

He shook his head mutely. How could she know? His head turned, his eyes meeting Talia's, seeing in them the same frantic awareness that was screaming through his blood.

_It's right there!_ The archdemon was right…there! They were Grey Wardens; it was their _job_ to kill it! Who knew if they'd ever be this close again?

Leliana forced Talia back to face her, fingers tangling in the warrior's hair as she pulled her down into a fierce kiss. Alistair stared bemusedly, then felt Morrigan's hand on his cheek, exerting a firm pressure. He expectantly turned his head -

Which was promptly rocked back on his shoulders by a stinging slap on the other cheek. "Hey!" He gingerly touched his face, but even as he did so, he realized that the shock of the slap had broken the hold that the song had on him. In the next moment, the archdemon spread its wings and dropped from its perch, soaring along the top of the canyon, and then sweeping upward and out of sight, the song fading quickly in its wake. "Thanks," he muttered, knowing that it was owed, "but I think I'd have liked the other way better."

The golden eyes regarded him, the emotion behind them inscrutable. "Then get yourself a woman who wishes to do so, instead of engaging in voyeurism," she snapped before turning and stalking away, muttering to herself.

He risked a glance back at Talia and Leliana; the kiss had ended, Talia's fingers brushing tenderly over the bard's cheek before she folded her arms around the other woman and pulled her close, resting her cheek against the red hair.

Dark eyes met his, clear once more and seeming torn between sympathy and amusement. "The kiss _was_ better," she informed him with a smirk, receiving a swat from Leliana as a reward.

"Thanks," he replied dryly, his own mind feeling clear and oddly husked out. Even the clamor of the darkspawn below seemed dimmer and easier to ignore. He looked upward, seeing nothing but blackness overhead. "Well, I guess there's no arguing about this being a Blight now."

Talia gave a ragged laugh. "If there is, it'll stop as soon as that thing reaches the surface." She paused, then went on. "It didn't sense us, did it?"

"We'd be dead if it had," he confirmed. "I think –" He hesitated, then continued. "I think that it can't sense us over the 'noise' of so many darkspawn together, just like they can't sense us because of each other."

Talia nodded. "It makes sense," she agreed slowly, then snorted. "As much as anything down here makes sense, anyway."

"I'll drink to that," he said, then amended, before Oghren could offer, "Once we're back on the surface, I mean."

The dwarf chuckled. "Suit yerself," he said, withdrawing a flask from his pack and taking a long pull from it. Alistair suppressed a shudder. He'd tried the stuff that Oghren called booze…once. He wasn't certain that the lining of his guts had finished regrowing yet.

Oghren tucked the flask away and let loose with a sonorous belch. "Bridge is that way," he grunted, jerking a stubby thumb over one shoulder. "Now what do you say we get out of here before that sodding thing comes back?"


	46. The Paragons

It was very odd.

The past had for so many years been an impenetrable wall, seemingly as solid as the stone from which Shale had been constructed. The golem had seen little use in trying to break past it, though memories might have made the decades in Honnleath a bit less tedious.

Still, what Shale could remember of the mage who had held the control rod had been a rather convincing argument that anything else that could be recalled would be decidedly less than inspiring.

Then the Warden had come, breaking the stasis that had imprisoned the golem with a couple of dwarvish words, and almost immediately, the wall had begun to crumble. Just chips at first: memories of being found by the mage in the Deep Roads; flashes of fighting, obeying the mage's commands and crushing men and horses; life in the village, with the mage strutting about like a skinny rooster, reminding all within earshot that he had been the King's own mage. Irritatingly, the day of the mage's death remained obscured; Shale honestly did not know how the mage had wound up with every bone in his body crushed, and that was a memory that the golem actually would have welcomed. If ever a human had deserved squishing, it had been that one, and Shale would have been quite pleased to discover that stone fists had indeed been the cause of his demise.

Of near equal significance, however, if Shale had defeated the power of the control rod and killed the mage, the memory of those moments might include how the feat had been done. The control rod was broken, but perhaps another could be made. It was not something that the Warden or any of its companions would be fool enough to attempt, but Shale had seen greed glittering in the eyes of more than one dwarf in Orzammar, and knew that they would do it, if only they knew how.

That knowledge had fortunately been lost to the dwarves over the centuries, but it seemed that the Paragon that the dwarven council was so eager to track down was seeking the Anvil of the Void. The words meant nothing to the golem, and yet, hearing them had struck a chord of disquiet like a steel hammer ringing on stone. The dwarves had created the golems before, and this Paragon desired to do so again. The notion was repugnant, but at the same time, Shale could not help a certain curiosity at the prospect of learning just _how_ it had once been done.

For this reason alone, the golem had not protested when they continued their pursuit of the Paragon after learning its goal, but as they pressed ever further into the Deep Roads, the wall of the past had grown…thin. No more true memories passed through, but rather an odd sort of light that cast everything that Shale saw down here with an unsettling illumination. Passages and ruined thaigs that they passed through seemed familiar, though the golem could not specifically recall having been there before.

Even more unsettling were the darkspawn. On the surface, they had simply been one of the few things that Shale could squish without incurring protest from the Warden or one of its companions. Down here, with the strange familiarity of the tunnels and ruins, the attacks by the darkspawn triggered a loathing and a sense of urgency that was - Shale couldn't say unnerving, because golems had no nerves, but there was a definite feeling of disquiet in the aftermath of the fights that Shale did not care to discuss with the Warden.

_For the greater good…_

The words made no sense, but they drifted through Shale's mind with a near-maddening frequency these days, especially since they had found the Paragon. Shale had been inclined to squish it before, simply for having the gall to propose creating - _enslaving_ \- more golems, but since the encounter with the broodmother, there had been another reason, though the golem did not understand why the female dwarf's fate should incite the outrage that it had.

The golem had hardly been alone in that feeling, however. The Warden had been quite ready to kill the Paragon on the spot, and it had taken both the templar and the drunken dwarf to hold it back while the sister and the elder mage sought to calm it. The Paragon had not seemed overly concerned, and to the announcement that its voice was needed to choose a new king, had responded that it would do so only after the Warden and its companions had won their way through the traps that Caridin had placed to bar the way to the Anvil.

Caridin. Another name that rang with disquieting familiarity. Another Paragon, and the one who had created the Anvil, and the first of the golems. A most clever dwarf, to judge from the mechanisms they had encountered, still functional and quite dangerous, even after so many centuries, but still only a fleshly being, and so they had passed them one by one, thanks in no small part to being fortunate enough to count a golem among their number.

All right, the clever hands of the sister and the painted elf had been useful, as well.

And now, they left the tunnel they had been following to enter the largest cavern they had yet been in, much of it taken up by a vast lake of molten lava that churned and bubbled with a fiery glow that cast its light clear to the vaulted ceiling.

Shale looked around curiously. This place was…was what?

_Where I became…_

The wall seemed as thin as paper now, needing only a breath of wind to blow it away entirely. The golem's gaze fell upon a shape standing motionless beside the molten lake. Another golem, Shale realized: a massive construct of iron, easily ten feet tall. There had been other golems in the Deep Roads, but they had either accompanied the spirits in the haunted ruins of Ortan Thaig, seemingly as mindlessly aggressive as the ghosts themselves, or activated when a trap was sprung, again seeking only to destroy until they themselves were destroyed.

This one was active, eyes glowing blue as its head turned to follow their progress, the lyrium runes etched into the massive torso and limbs shimmering with power.

"Talia, look!" The templar grasped the Warden's arm, pointing excitedly. "The Anvil! That's got to be it."

Shale's eyes followed the gesture, up the slope of a narrow outcropping of stone that rose steadily as it jutted out into the lake, to the tip, where the Anvil of the Void sat, massive and immobile, yet seeming to pulsate with long restrained power.

Yes, that was it, indeed. She could not quite grasp the memories yet, but -

_She? I am a -_

"Shayle of House Cadash," the lone golem intoned solemnly. "It has been long since you were here last. I welcome you and your companions."

"You know Shale?" The Warden cocked its head, approaching the other golem cautiously.

"Shayle," came the patient correction, the subtle difference almost indistinguishable. "And well do I know her. I made her, after all."

"Her?" The templar seemed no less astonished than Shale felt.

_Shayle. My name is…Shayle._ "You…made me?" Shayle took a step forward, studying the other golem intently. There was nothing even remotely familiar in the towering form, but the _voice_ …

"I made you, as I made all golems," the other replied, "as I made the Anvil."

"You made the Anvil?" The sister moved closer, eyes shining with awe. "But that would mean that you are -"

"Caridin," the drunken dwarf breathed, staring at the runes on the golem's chest. "The sodding Paragon."

"What? Wait." The templar stared between Shayle and the other golem. "I thought that Paragons were dwarves?"

"I was once a dwarf," Caridin said, "as was every other golem."

"I was a _dwarf_?" Shayle was stunned…or was she? The wall had thinned to the most flimsy of veils, and was beginning to dissolve, the memories tumbling through.

_Her mother and father, tearful but proud, bidding her goodbye._

_Her younger brother, running alongside her, small fingers gripping her own until their mother drew him away._

_Caridin, his dwarven face lined with weariness and resolve, his eyes kind, holding out a hand in welcome._

"Shayle of House Cadash," Caridin repeated again, the voice more resonant than the one in her distant memory, but otherwise the same. "A brave and skilled member of the Warrior Caste, and one of the first volunteers."

"Volunteers?" The swamp witch drew near, golden eyes glittering with interest. "For what, exactly? How does one make an immortal golem from fragile flesh?"

"Not lightly," was the stern response. "You seek the Anvil, do you not?"

"We do," the Warden admitted carefully. "A Blight threatens the world, and the craft of making golems has been lost. They would be a great asset against the darkspawn."

Where was the other Paragon…the drunken dwarf's wife? It had lagged well behind them as they worked their way through the traps, which was quite wise of it, all things considered.

"The darkspawn were the reason that the golems were first created," Caridin answered the Warden gravely. "I sought to create the perfect weapon: an invincible warrior of stone or steel. The form was well within my skill, but I could not give that form life; I had to use that which already existed. The Anvil…allowed me to do that, but the cost grew too high." The glowing eyes shifted to Shayle. "You do not remember, do you?"

Shayle shook her head. "I have forgotten much, it seems."

A sound that might have been a sigh came from the other. "Often, I have wished to forget. Centuries have passed since I sealed the way, yet I can still recall the face of every dwarf who came to me. Came…or was forced."

"Forced?" the swamp witch echoed with an arched eyebrow. "The volunteers ran out, I take it?"

"Aye," Caridin replied heavily. "But if you wish to truly understand, touch the Anvil. No words of mine can convey what the Anvil has borne witness to, and you must understand, to know why I say that the Anvil can never be used again."

"Touch it?" The swamp witch looked from Caridin to Anvil and back, one dark eyebrow arched skeptically. "I think not, without knowing more of its nature."

"No harm will come to you," Caridin assured it, looking also at the Warden, "though you may not care for what you are shown. It is the great and hidden shame of the dwarves."

"I'll do it," the templar spoke up suddenly, squaring its shoulders.

"Alistair!" The Warden rebuked it sharply before turning back to Caridin. "No offense, but I'd like to hear more from you about the Anvil before any of us touches it."

Again, the sound that might have been a sigh, though the Paragon did not seem angered. "The Anvil was created during the first Blight. The darkspawn had overrun the outlying thaigs and were slaughtering my people. I was the most skilled Smith of my generation, and it was to me that the King came as our Warriors fell before the darkspawn."

"Hey, now," the drunken dwarf growled.

Caridin's glowing eyes lowered to it. "I mean no disrespect, Warrior," the golem said solemnly. "Your caste fought valiantly, but they were vastly outnumbered. The Anvil gave me the power to bind a soul to stone or steel, and for that, I was made a Paragon. Those who offered themselves to be made into golems were given only slightly less honor than a Paragon, their houses elevated." He nodded toward an enormous slab of flat obsidian set into the floor of the cavern, its polished surface gleaming in the glow of the lava. "Their names were given to the Stone, that the Memories might hold them for all time."

"Sounds like a deal," the drunken dwarf observed. "You'll have no shortage of volunteers in Orzammar." The dwarves were obsessed with honor: their own, or that of their families. It had seemed utterly ludicrous as Shayle had watched the complicated maneuverings of the factions within Orzammar, but now, remembering the pride in the eyes of her parents, the hero worship in her brother's upturned face, it seemed…understandable?

"And yet, the volunteers ran out," she said, the question behind the statement plain.

Caridin nodded. "The golems fulfilled their purpose, turning back the darkspawn tide, but others had seen their power, and desired it for themselves. A new King arose who cared for little but gold, and he sold the golems to the highest bidders. Many of the golems rebelled, and it was then that the first control rods were created, to compel their obedience."

"You did this?" Shayle felt anger stirring beneath her crust, as molten as the lake a few yards away. "Why?"

"Gold was needed," was the heavy reply, "to repair what damage we could and feed the countless refugees who had crowded into the surviving thaigs. But that need was filled, and still King Valtor hungered for more, and those who would offer themselves freely for honor rightly refused to do so for another's greed. The King began to bring criminals, casteless and his own enemies to be made into golems. I refused, and as punishment, he ordered my apprentices to make me into a golem, thinking to compel me with a control rod. Only Volney obeyed, lured by the promise of being made a Paragon, but while he just barely possessed the skill needed to bind me into this form, he had never mastered the subtleties needed to attune the control rod to my essence. My loyal apprentices aided me in sealing the way to the Anvil with barriers and traps. Explosives opened long sealed tunnels, letting in the darkspawn that we had once sought to keep out."

The massive head tipped upward, regarding the vaulted ceiling. "I have been here alone ever since. The apprentices who aided me all died in the process, killed either by our own people or the darkspawn."

"I'm sorry," the Warden said quietly. "But why stay here? Surely you could have gone to the surface, as well?"

"To guard the Anvil," Caridin said simply. "I wished to destroy it, but my apprentices argued that the King would eventually see reason; by the time it became apparent that he would not, they were gone, and as one of its creations, I am unable to raise a hand against it. It is my hope that you will do this service for me, that I may give myself to the stone and rest at last."

The Warden shifted, looking uncertain. "What if more volunteers could be found?" it asked at last. "Oghren is right; with a Blight at hand, many would step forward, and more golems could help against the darkspawn -"

"No!" Caridin's reply was not quite a shout, but it was strong enough that the Warden took an uneasy step back, keeping itself between the Paragon and the sister. "Touch the Anvil, surfacer. Touch it and know why it can never again be used!"

A look passed between the Warden and the sister, then the Warden and the templar. "I'll do it," the templar said again.

"No." It was the qunari who spoke, its expression stern. "Neither of you may be risked. I will do it." Without waiting for an answer, it turned and strode up the incline, out over the magma without hesitation. The others followed, watching cautiously from below as the qunari extended a hand, laying it flat upon the scintillating surface of the Anvil.

The qunari's face immediately twisted into a grimace, and a grunt escaped from between clenched teeth, but it kept its hand in place, even as its legs failed it and it sank to its knees, muscles trembling with strain. The sister tried to go to it, but the Warden held out a restraining arm. After several long moments, the qunari rose and descended as stoically as it had ascended.

Violet eyes fixed upon Caridin, the qunari spoke. "The dwarves were placed within the shell of the form you had constructed, and it was sealed around them. Then, an extremely hot liquid was poured through holes in the eyes and the mouth of the form, filling the interior while the dwarf still lived."

"Molten lyrium," Caridin confirmed, to the horrified gasps of the sister and the elder mage. It powered the runes that had been embedded into the form, fusing spirit with stone or steel, but it was…most painful."

"That is disturbingly close to blood magic, Caridin," the elder mage said gravely.

"It was necessary to complete the process," the Paragon replied, no less grave. "I comforted myself with the thought that it was for the greater good."

The words shook loose another memory: one that Shayle would have preferred to remain forgotten.

_Caridin, leading her by the hand into a cavern. This cavern._

_The two halves of the stone shell waiting for her beside the Anvil._

_Her smile of bravado as she climbed inside and the two halves were brought together._

_Looking up, seeing light through the holes at the eyes and mouth, then the light vanishing as white-hot lyrium poured through them, over her body._

_Her screams filling the tiny space as the lyrium seared her body, filling the space and keeping her alive and in agony._

_The ringing of Caridin's hammer as he worked the final shaping, each blow driving stone against Anvil, the power of the Anvil giving direction to the raw magic of the lyrium._

_The sudden cessation of pain as the final blow was struck and she_ _**became** _ _…_

"The qunari speaks the truth," she spoke up, disliking the weakness in her tone. She was beyond such frailties now. "As does the Paragon."

"You remember, then?" the Warden asked her.

"My creation, yes," Shayle confirmed, feeling stronger, more herself. Memories could not harm her. Very little could harm her, in fact. "Many other things remain forgotten, but perhaps they will come in time."

"Such a sacrifice is not without honor, if undertaken willingly," the qunari opined. "Would you undergo the process again?"

"I - yes," Shayle replied, after the barest moment's thought. "And not simply because it has made me so obviously superior to my fleshy form. It was…" The hesitation was longer now as she searched through concepts that had not intruded on her thoughts in far too long. "It was the right thing to do," she said at last, "but the control rods were most certainly _not_!"

"Indeed," Caridin agreed heavily, "and it is for that reason that I say that the Anvil cannot be used again. Undoubtedly, honor would be the first motivation now, as it was then, but greed will rear its head sooner or later."

"And they're gonna want control rods from the get-go now," the drunken dwarf predicted. "Nobody even knows that the golems didn't used ta have the sodding things. No way they'd let 'em wander loose."

The Warden nodded, expression somber. "You're probably right," it admitted, then looked hesitantly at Caridin. "You're a Paragon. The King is dead, and the Assembly is deadlocked on his successor. The word of a Paragon is likely the only thing that will sway them to act before the Blight -"

"And you wish for me to give that word, in exchange for the destruction of the Anvil?" Caridin guessed, his voice toneless.

The Warden hesitated, turning to glance uncertainly at the sister and the elder mage, then shook its head. "No. We'll do that anyway." Brown eyes regarded Shayle thoughtfully. "It's the right thing to do."

Shayle nodded slowly, oddly uncertain _what_ she felt. Grateful that the Warden seemed to understand, certainly, though her mind still spun with memories that she was not certain that she wanted.

"No!" The angry shout rose from behind them all before anyone else could speak. The drunken dwarf's wife had certainly taken its time getting here, but it seemed intent on making up for lost time as it charged forward with a short, brass rod in each hand, the lyrium etched runes almost identical to those on the rod that the Warden had possessed in Honnleath. Two golems lumbered from the tunnel in her wake: one stone and one metal. Shayle recognized them as two of the golems that had been in one of the trapped rooms; the painted elf and the sister had disarmed the triggering mechanisms. Evidently, the drunken dwarf's wife had delayed long enough to find where the control rods had been concealed and activate them. "I won't let you destroy it! I've come too far, given up everything!"

"You betrayed everyone who trusted you!" the Warden snarled, eyes as cold as obsidian as the starmetal sword hissed from its scabbard.

"For the Anvil!" the dwarf shouted. "My Hespith, the rest of them…I did it all to find the Anvil!"

"Sod it all, woman, can you _hear_ yourself?" the drunken dwarf roared, stepping between Warden and wife, though Shayle could not be certain who it sought to shield from whom.

"Look around, Oghren!" The wife gestured wildly. "Is this what our empire should look like? A crumbling tunnel, filled with darkspawn spume? The Anvil will let us take back our glory!"

"The Anvil is our shame, not our glory," Caridin rumbled, moving to place his bulk between the wife and the Anvil. "I do not know you, but I will not allow the Anvil to be used again."

The female dwarf spun upon the Paragon, eyes blazing. "You? You may have been a dwarf once, but you've obviously forgotten what that means! You're a _thing_ now, a tool to be used, and your apprentices may have been too dimwitted to make a proper control rod, but I am not!" It turned to the pair of golems who had accompanied it, raising both of the control rods. "I order you to -"

Shayle's fist descended without warning, squarely onto the infuriating dwarf: once, twice, three times. 'Squish' really _was_ an apt description for what such a blow did, the golem decided. There was the initial thud of impact, followed quickly by the crackling of bones being pulverized and the meatier sound of muscles being crushed and torn, and then the noise that the juices made as they squirted, spurted and sprayed from the ruins of the fleshy bag that had once contained them. The latter covered an impressive distance, spattering most of the onlookers, and the templar covered its mouth with a hand and spun away, making gagging noises. The elder mage and the sister also made sounds of dismay and stepped back, staring down at the fine, red spray that covered them from head to toe.

The Warden, similarly decorated, looked no less stunned, but stayed put, glaring up at the golem. "Shayle!"

"I should apologize, should I not?" Shayle inquired. It had been a bit messier than she had intended, but she had been unusually emotional; surely a lady was permitted such slips?

"Apologize? _Apologize_?" The drunken dwarf's eyes bulged, and its face was nearly as red as its hair. "You think a sodding _apology_ is going to… _look_ at her!" It stared down at what remained of its wife. "She was a sodding _Paragon_!"

"She was insane, Oghren," the Warden said quietly, putting a hand on the dwarf's shoulder. "She'd have done her best to kill us all to get to the Anvil, and if she'd set those golems on us, she might have done it."

The dwarf grunted, shrugging out from under the hand. "Just keep the pile of rocks away from me for a while," it growled, stomping away from the group and staring out at the molten lake.

"A bit of warning would have been a good idea," the Warden told Shale, sheathing its sword and wiping the gore from its face with one hand.

"A bit?" the templar demanded, its face still an unhealthy shade in the glow of the lava as it stepped away from the regurgitated contents of its stomach on the ground, scrubbing the back of its hand across its mouth.

"As I said, I should apologize. My actions were hasty, but the dwarf's arrogance angered me. I am…sorry." It was the first time that Shayle could remember having uttered the term. "Not for killing the dwarf. That was richly deserved, and tremendously satisfying, but it _was_ messier than it could have been. Simply splitting its skull would have sufficed."

"Apology accepted," the Warden said wryly, crouching to retrieve the control rods from where they had been dropped from the dwarf's hands: hands which had, Shayle noted with satisfaction, received not so much as a bruise, thanks to the superior precision of her blows. "What should we do with these?" it asked, gesturing to the two golems, who stood motionless once more.

"They are Durroc and Garroc: brothers of House Orta," Caridin spoke up. "They were among the last of the volunteers."

"House Orta?" The Warden glanced at the templar, then to the Paragon. "There is one who claims to be a survivor of that House in Orzammar; we located documents in Ortan Thaig that may prove that claim."

"After the Blight was ended, the golems traditionally served the Houses from whence they came," Caridin offered. "If this dwarf truly is the heir to House Orta, she would have a legitimate claim."

"They are to be possessions, then?" Shayle asked distastefully. The two seemed as mindless as all the others that had been encountered, but she could not but wonder if minds lurked behind the strictures of the control rods, aching to be free. It was a most disturbing thought.

"For now, Shayle," the Warden replied, "but Orta struck me as a good enough type. We'll make certain that the dwarves know the true origins of the golems, that they are more than just animated stone and metal. Once that's known, I think there will be more than a few who will be willing to try to figure out how to free them from the control rods. Wynne, could you copy down all the names and houses on that monument? The Shaperate will definitely want the information there."

"I'll get right on it," the elder mage replied, rummaging in its pack for quill and parchment and making its way toward the obsidian slab.

"I know it's not much, Shayle," the Warden continued, "but the only other alternative is to just leave them down here. If we take them back to Orzammar, there's at least a chance they could be freed."

"It will have to do…for now," Shayle agreed. With the new memories free within her mind, the fight against the darkspawn had taken on a new imperative; the Blight must be dealt with first, but after that… "But if the dwarf of House Orta treats them as _things_ , it will answer to me."

"Understood," the Warden replied, turning back to Caridin. "How do we destroy the Anvil?"

"Are you quite certain that we should not gain the assurance that this Paragon will lend us his support, since he is now the only one left to us?" the witch inquired with a sardonic glance toward Shayle.

"Quite certain," the Warden said firmly as the sister glared at the witch. "We've killed to keep the Anvil from being used; I won't cheapen that by dickering now."

The Paragon's massive head nodded slowly. "An admirable sentiment, surfacer. The great hammer that lays beside the Anvil was infused with the same power. When hammer and anvil were used together to craft a golem, the power arcing between them is what bonded life to stone and steel. If the hammer strikes the Anvil directly, that same power will unmake them both."

"Sounds easy enough," the drunken dwarf grunted, turning away from the lava and pushing by them. "I'll do it."

The Warden followed it halfway up, then stood watching as the dwarf gripped the massive hammer and hefted it, face set in grim fury as it stared down at the Anvil. With a roar, it swung the hammer in a powerful arc; it struck the Anvil with a sound like thunder and a brilliant light that flared to fill the cavern. When it cleared, the Anvil lay in two pieces, the metal that had formed it cold and grey. The head of the hammer was a shapeless lump as the dwarf let it fall to the stone. Turning, it plodded back down the slope. "That's it, then," it muttered as it passed the Warden. "Now, if y'don't mind, I'm gonna give my wife back to the stone."

The Warden nodded, returning to Caridin as the dwarf began to gather stones for a cairn. The others moved away from the remains of the wife, none offering to assist as the dwarf piled the stones over it.

"Will you come back to Orzammar with us and convince the Assembly to settle on a king?" the Warden asked quietly. "You're the only living Paragon now; your word will carry a great deal of weight."

"I will not return to Orzammar," Caridin replied. "My time there is done, but," the Paragon went on as the Warden's face fell, "I will put hammer to metal one last time: I will craft a crown and place my mark upon it. The one to whom it is given will be known by all as the choice of a Paragon."

Warden and templar exchanged a cautious look. "Thank you," the Warden said. "Did you want to hear anything about the two candidates?"

"I cared little for politics in life," the Paragon answered, "and even less now. You have shown yourself honorable; give it to whoever you deem fit. I will offer this one last service to my people…and then I will return myself to the stone at last."


	47. The Lion In Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks and apologies to those of you who have been asking for a continuation on this story. RL got in the way for a while; I got going again on ff.net, but just now made it back here.

"What is going on?"

Loghain Mac Tir looked up from the map spread on the table as Anora strode into the room. Her cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes flashing with anger. She looked more like her mother each day, it seemed, but at times like this, that realization inspired less nostalgia and more weariness, remembering Celia's anger at his frequent and extended absences from Gwaren.

"Go," he ordered Cauthrien curtly. His lieutenant looked dubious - not an uncommon expression these days - but complied, closing the door behind her and leaving him alone with his daughter.

"I'm trying to quell a civil war and deal with the darkspawn threat," he retorted dryly, giving her a disapproving glance that he knew well she'd outgrown years before. She was no child, and he'd known this moment was coming for some days now. It hadn't stopped him from hoping it wouldn't, and he sought to dissuade her now.

He wasn't surprised when she was not dissuaded, however. "You still say there is no Blight, despite the reports of the darkspawn numbers?" she demanded, crossing her arms and giving him a frankly skeptical look.

"There remains no sighting of an archdemon, which means that it is not a true Blight," he growled, unable to help the anger that rose up in him. It was _not_ a Blight, damn it. Maric had clung stubbornly to the 'prophecy' of the witch who had helped them escape the Wilds so many years ago, had risked his life in the Deep Roads because of it, but Loghain had never believed her. He had seen her magic, true enough, but she was just another mage, albeit a powerful one. No one could see the future. No one.

"If that's the case, I suppose we should count ourselves fortunate," Anora observed acerbically. "This non-Blight is doing a thorough enough job of decimating my kingdom, from what I can see."

He didn't miss the slight emphasis on the possessive. He hadn't asked to be called king, but despite her competence in most matters, few men would follow a woman in times of war. He knew it was nonsense; Rowan had been proof of it, as Cauthrien and Anora were now, but he'd allowed it because it gave him the best chance of uniting the nobles who weren't yet in open rebellion. For Anora. For Ferelden.

"If we weren't having to fight our own people, we'd have driven the darkspawn back months ago!" His eyes dropped back to the map, and the markers that indicated where pockets of resistance were known to exist. Too damn many, and now he'd received word that the mysterious Chasind - Steel Wolf was evidently what his name translated as - had been spotted at Redcliffe. The sneaking relief he'd felt at hearing of Eamon's recovery was fading quickly as Rowan's brother placed himself at the center of the rebellion, no doubt thinking to put Maric's bastard son on the throne as his puppet king.

"That may well be," Anora said, "but what does it say when a people consider their ruler a greater enemy than the darkspawn?" Before he could respond to that, she went on. "And Rendon Howe is not helping our situation. Did you know that the Denerim alienage has been locked down? And that mages from Tevinter are the only ones allowed in and out?"

Technically, he hadn't until just now, but the recent influx of gold into the royal treasury had made it clear that the 'solution' that Howe had proposed was likely in progress. He hadn't asked, justifying that to himself with the same reasoning that he tried on Anora now. "Denerim is Howe's responsibility. He is the Arl there now."

"Oh, yes, how could I have forgotten?" Open sarcasm now, grating on his nerves like fingernails on slate. "Arl of Amaranthine, Arl of Denerim and now Teyrn of Highever, as well! Shall we give him Gwaren next, or just skip straight to the throne?"

"He has been loyal to you!" Loghain snapped, staring down at the map, unable to look at his daughter as he uttered the lie. Rendon Howe was loyal to none but Rendon Howe, but he was also canny enough to know where his best interests lay. "Have you forgotten that Bryce Cousland sought to betray us to Orlais, and Vaughan Urien was killed by those same elves that you feel such concern for?"

"If half of what I've heard of him is true, it was richly deserved," she replied with a look of distaste, "and you've only Howe's word regarding either man. Have you become so toothless that you must have that rat chew your food for you, as well?"

The sting of that remark snapped the restraint on his temper. "I do what I must for Ferelden!" he roared at her, feeling a mix of satisfaction and shame as she took a step back, eyes wide with shock. "War is not pretty, girl, and it is not for the faint of heart! If you have a quarrel with the way Howe manages his lands, take it up with him!" He brought his fist down hard on the table. "I have a kingdom to save!"

The shock passed swiftly. Anora's chin came up, the defiance in her eyes not quite masking the hurt. "I fully intend to!" she informed him in an icy tone that he'd never heard from her before. Turning on a heel, she stalked from the room.

Doing just what he had known she would.

Cauthrien entered a few moments later. "Should I go with her, Commander?" She never addressed him as 'Your Majesty', and for that, he was grateful, but she still followed him, doubts and all.

He shook his head wearily. "She would not appreciate that, I suspect." Anora had never cared for Cauthrien, refusing to believe that Loghain was not bedding his chief lieutenant. Cauthrien trusted him still, and it was best if she had no knowledge of what was about to happen…what had to happen.

_"It is for her own safety," Howe had assured him, oozing the same diffidence that he always did. "Your enemies will seek her life, to undermine your claim to authority, and you know that she will not willingly take the precautions that are necessary. Your daughter is a brave woman, and she will make a fine queen once this crisis has passed, but for now…"_

He had trailed off meaningfully, leaving the details unspoken as always, and Loghain had agreed with a silent nod. Anora would understand one day that what he had done was for her, for Ferelden. When he gave her back her kingdom, united and cleansed of both treachery and darkspawn, she would see the sacrifices that he had made and be able to rule with the same iron determination.

For Ferelden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. - Seriously...how far gone do you have to be to turn your daughter over to a psycho who kills anyone between him and what he wants? In the game, it never explains just how she winds up locked away in Chateau de Howe, but it is made pretty plain that Anora at least believes that her father was involved. This chapter was my way of trying to set it up in a way that fit with the obsessions that drive Loghain in this story, but the fact that he tries to shield Cauthrien from his decision seems to indicate that he can't quite buy his own justifications.
> 
> And while I remain moderately underwhelmed by the first two DA novelizations, I have woven the lore from them into this story, most noticeably in this chapter, where Loghain recalls the encounter he and Maric had with Flemeth during 'The Stolen Throne' and the subsequent events of 'The Calling'.


	48. Reunion

It had been more than two weeks since they'd departed Orzammar, and Leliana still could not get enough of looking at the sky. Even when clouds scudded low overhead, her gaze was turned upward often enough that Talia joked about harnessing Brego to lead her, and the sight of the sun evoked a near rapturous bliss.

Even the tents felt constricting, a suffocating reminder of their weeks underground, and only when Talia drew her gently to bed would she leave off her wondering regard of the vast, starry sky.

Winter was full upon the land when they had stepped out of the great iron doors, laden with gems, gold and fine dwarven armor and weapons bestowed upon them by a grateful King Harrowmont, and the going had been slow. Twice, Wynne's aching joints had warned them in time to seek shelter before a blizzard struck. The first time, they had still been in the Frostbacks, and Oghren's stone-sense had led them to a cave that was just big enough to hold them all; fortunately, that storm had subsided after only two days, allowing the group to escape the close confinement that was wearing even Wynne's patience thin.

The second storm had hit as they left the mountains and approached the northern shores of Lake Calenhad; they had pitched their tents in a copse of fir trees that had shielded them from the worst of the wind and snow, and made the ensuing four days much more bearable. There was much visiting between tents, with dice, cards and stories passing the hours. Wynne knit and sipped at mulled wine to ease her aches, and Morrigan simply read from her mother's grimoire, rarely leaving her own tent. Shayle remained outside, as unaffected by the cold as she was by the wind, but she had become more verbose since recovering the memories of her past, and frequently joined in the conversations with her still acerbic wit.

There was plenty of time for Leliana and Talia to be alone, however, and the presence of her lover kept the walls of the tent from feeling quite so close when even the dim light that made it through the driving snow gave way to darkness and the wind howled outside, sounding unnervingly like the dying shrieks of the broodmother. They talked, made love, simply held each other, or fussed over Brego and Schmooples.

The little nug had been a last-minute surprise from Talia, who had remembered her interest in the odd looking creatures that were a staple in the dwarven diet. The constantly flicking ears, the snuffling nose, the fine layer of hair over the wrinkled skin...even the tiny, near blind eyes of the subterranean animals had fascinated her, and the baby that Talia had obtained, just weaned and barely more than a double handful, had been absolutely adorable, though the bard seemed to be the only one to think so.

"You know, suddenly the fact that she considers you attractive seems a lot less significant," Alistair muttered to his fellow Warden as Leliana fussed and cooed over her new pet.

"Tell me about it," Talia replied, though her expression was one of amused indulgence.

"Good choice, Warden," Oghren commented, eyeing the nug appraisingly. "A few more weeks and it'll be perfect roasting size. Nice 'n tender."

"You will _not_ be eating Schmooples!" Leliana exclaimed indignantly, glaring at the dwarf.

" _Schmooples_?" The bushy eyebrows drew together in astonishment, then the blue eyes beneath them lifted to Talia with a leer. "That anything like what she calls ya in the sack when you two're – ahh, never mind."

"Good choice, Oghren," Talia said calmly, releasing her grip on his ear. "But for the record, if it was anything close to that, I'd be finding someplace else to sleep."

"Oh, really?" The redhead's gaze shifted to her Warden, one eyebrow quirked, and Talia flushed and ducked her head.

"Not really," she mumbled, shooting a discreetly beseeching glance at the bard, and Oghren crowed gleefully.

"Warden, she's got you whipped!"

Leliana started to object, but Talia just gave the dwarf a sly grin. "If this is whipped, I'll take it."

Oghren had subsided, the gleam in his eyes suggesting that he was thinking about the concept of 'whipped' in ways that would be best not discussed in polite company...or within range of Talia's arm. Schmooples had left Orzammar with them, riding happily in a sling beneath Leliana's cloak and sleeping burrowed beneath a blanket in their tent at night.

Though Brego had hunted and eaten nug during their time in the Deep Roads, a word from Talia was all it had taken for him to accept the tiny newcomer as something to be at least tolerated as something important to Leliana. From the beginning, the mabari had shown no jealousy toward his mistress' lover, displaying neither curiosity nor impatience at the intimate aspects of their relationship. He might sleep outside the tent, if the weather permitted, or simply curl up on his blanket in one corner, his back considerately turned to Talia and the bard. Only after both of them had succumbed to sleep would he draw near, stretching himself across the bedroll at their feet and once Schmooples had discovered how warm and furry he was, the nug would invariably seek him out at night (Talia drew the line at letting Schmooples sleep beneath the blankets with them, except in the coldest weather), snuggling into his side with happy snuffles and squeaks. Brego sent his mistress any number of long-suffering looks, but allowed the familiarity from this odd new pack-mate. In return for his politeness, he received plenty of ear scratching and belly rubs from both women.

The last five days had been clear, with the sun shining so brightly on the snow that they'd resorted to tying strips of layered cheesecloth across their eyes to ward off snowblindness. Shayle broke the path, plowing effortlessly through waist-high snow until they had reached Gherlen's Pass and found roads at least marginally cleared by wagon traffic.

The journey had been remarkable in its lack of combat; save a pack of hungry mountain wolves who they had quickly convinced to seek easier prey, they had encountered nothing to fight. The absence of darkspawn, in particular, was a welcome respite after facing them daily for so long. Nowhere was the relief more evident than on the faces of Talia and Alistair, their expressions more relaxed than Leliana had seen them in weeks without the constant pressure of the darkspawn presence in their minds.

Even so, they knew all too well the reason for the missing darkspawn. The image of that deadly procession in the Deep Roads - countless darkspawn, escorted by the archdemon on their migration south - was etched into Leliana's mind. The Blight was real, and all the battles that they had fought to this point were but preludes to what loomed in the future.

That knowledge lay heavy on them all, giving a grim purpose to their steps, and the first sight of the bluffs of Redcliffe at the lake's edge was a welcome one. Talia's pace quickened, then slowed at the sight of a figure silhouetted atop a ridge ahead: a figure who vanished as they drew close.

"Trouble?" Alistair queried, drawing up on his companion's right, squinting at the empty ridge.

"Don't know." Talia frowned. "It just occurred to me that we know nothing about what's been going on in Ferelden while we've been in Orzammar. It's possible that we'll find Loghain's forces waiting for us in Redcliffe." The sideways look that she quirked at him didn't look nearly apprehensive enough to suit the bard.

"Perhaps Zevran and I should scout ahead to investigate?" she suggested. Talia's frown deepened, but Leliana knew that she could not deny that the strategy was a valid one.

"Let's get a little closer," she said at last. "I want to be close enough that we can help if you run into trouble."

From the corner of her eye, Leliana saw Zevran roll his eyes. Between the two of them, they could likely shave off Eamon's beard, tie the bootlaces of every soldier in Redcliffe together and be away without being detected, but the set of Talia's jaw made it clear that arguing would be a waste of breath.

"As you wish, my love," she simply said, giving the elf a minute shrug as Talia and Alistair both settled their shields onto their arms.

Oghren loosened the straps that bound his massive axe to his back with a grunt. "About sodding time we got to see some real action up here." The dwarf had spent his first several days on the surface with his eyes locked resolutely on the ground beneath his feet, stealing occasional, nervous glances at the sky above. He'd been the only one in the group to welcome the time spent in cave and tents, but as he gradually accepted the fact that he was not going to fall off the face of the world into the vast emptiness above, his more - colorful - personality traits had returned with renewed vigor, muting the sympathy that the bard had felt for him and leading Morrigan to threaten on more than one occasion to turn him into a particular species of newt that apparently was without gender of any kind.

Talia got on reasonably well with him, shrugging off the lewd comments directed at her indifferently. Those directed at Leliana were another matter, but once Wynne had healed his broken nose, the dwarf had treated the bard with relative restraint...at least, when either of the Wardens was around. He was helping Talia to learn to channel and control her battle rages, though, so Leliana forgave his occasional slips, as long as they were of the tongue, and not the hands.

They had gone perhaps a mile when a group of figures came into view along the road ahead, walking at a brisk pace.

"How many?" Talia asked tersely, pulling the cheesecloth away from her eyes and peering at the approaching forms.

"Twelve," Zevran replied confidently, then one eyebrow quirked as his expression became quizzical. "An odd company, however. Some of them wear the armor of Redcliffe, but the rest seem to be Chasind."

"Chasind?" Alistair glanced at the elf, his skepticism obvious, but it was an acknowledged fact that Zevran had the longest sight of all of them.

"Some did come through Lothering as the Blight grew in the Wilds," Leliana offered, as her own eyes now picked out the braids and feathers, painted faces and furs that set the tribesmen of the south apart from Fereldans. "Perhaps others have moved further north; surely the Wilds are no longer a haven for them."

"Moved north and joined the Redcliffe militia?" Morrigan made no attempt to hide her scorn at the notion, but curiosity gleamed in her eyes. A questioning glance to Talia was answered with a nod; her form shimmered, and a falcon winged its way skyward, wheeling to glide toward the approaching party, keeping well out of the reach of any bows.

"They don't seem to have their weapons drawn," Talia murmured, glancing back at the rest of them. "We'll do the same, but stay alert."

They continued on until Brego suddenly halted, his head lifted up, sniffing the air intently, muscles quivering. As unexpectedly as he had stopped, he bolted forward, his excited baying ringing in his wake, foregoing bends in the road to plow straight through the snow toward the approaching group, sending the white powder sailing into the air every which way.

"Brego, no!" Talia shouted, her expression caught between alarm and anger as she gave chase. The mabari wheeled and returned, bounding around her in a tight circle twice while barking wildly before evading her attempt to grab his collar and racing forward again in full cry.

"Can we draw our weapons now?" Oghren wanted to know, one hand already on the haft of his axe and an anticipatory gleam in his eyes.

"What is he doing?" Alistair demanded, eyes wide. "He knows the Redcliffe knights, and he was never like this with the Chasind in the Wilds."

"I don't know." Talia had abandoned her attempt at catching the runaway, but she kept moving forward at a jog, her frustration and confusion palpable. "He's never done this before. He hasn't disobeyed me since he was a puppy."

"That is not the cry that he gives when attacking," Leliana added. The mabari's battle howl sent chills down the spine, and his snarls curdled the blood, but his current vocalizations, while full-throated, held nothing of aggression. He sounded almost...joyful?

The other group had halted their progress, all eyes on Brego's approach, and Leliana prayed that any archers in the group would restrain themselves. One of the Chasind stepped forward, and Talia groaned, but the man drew no weapons; he simply moved away from the rest and dropped to one knee, the braids in his hair swaying as he held his arms out to the mabari.

"What the -?" Talia's look of baffled consternation deepened when Brego flew the last few strides into the Chasind's rough embrace, then faded, the color draining from her face as the dog frantically licked the face and hands of the stranger, his whines audible even at a distance and his stubby tail moving his entire back end as it wagged. Her mouth moved silently, forming a single word, then:

"Fergus?" The name escaped her in a whisper, but before Leliana and Alistair could do more than exchange an astonished glance, her voice rose to a shout. " _Fergus!_ "

The Warden's shield dropped to the road, her pack a heartbeat behind it as she broke into a run, pelting through the snow along the path that Brego had partially broken, falling headlong and scrambling to her feet with barely a pause.

"I'll be damned," Alistair muttered. "You think it really is him?"

"I can think of no other reason that Brego would behave so," Leliana replied. _Maker, please let it be so._

"Maker be praised," Wynne murmured fervently, though the faint furrow of worry on her brow as she watched Talia's progress made it clear that she, too, feared that it could be a case of mistaken identity that would tear open healing wounds afresh.

"So who's Fergus?" Oghren grunted, looking a bit annoyed that there would evidently be no fighting. "Old squeeze?" He leered up at the bard. "If she dumps ya, how about you'n me -"

"Not unless every other available individual on Thedas drops dead," Leliana replied almost absently, picking up Talia's pack and handing it and the shield to Sten. "And Fergus is her brother."

"Her brother's a sodding Wilder?" the dwarf demanded, bushy brows knitting together in puzzlement.

"He is not," Morrigan said as she dropped among them in a blur of wings and shifted smoothly back to her own form, "but those who are with him are. The markings on their faces indicate that they are of the Otter Clan; evidently, he eluded death at the hands of the darkspawn by taking refuge with the Chasind, and seems to have earned some level of influence with them, judging from the fetishes that he bears. 'Twill likely be an interesting tale."

By the time they reached the group from Redcliffe, Talia had been swept into the embrace of the man - who evidently was indeed Fergus - and was sobbing like a child, hanging onto him as though clinging to a rock in a storm.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Those two choked words seemed to be the only ones she could say. Her brother, his own cheeks damp, stroked her hair and murmured reassurances. He seemed far less shaken by the reunion than Talia, and Leliana realized that he had likely known for some time that his sister was alive. Why else be here, of all places?

He lifted his eyes as they arrived, his gaze curious and measuring. His eyes were a piercing green, and Leliana recalled Talia saying that he had taken after their mother in that respect, while she had inherited her deep brown eyes from Bryce Cousland. Their shared parentage was evident in the lines of his face beneath the Chasind paint, however: the high cheekbones and straight nose were there. Though he wore the braids, fetishes and furs with no hint of discomfort, there was the same proud lift to his chin that could be seen in Talia on occasion: the bearing of one trained from an early age to the duty of leadership.

"Glad to see you back." Ser Perth stepped forward to grasp Alistair's forearm in greeting, clearly glad to have something to focus on besides the emotional reunion of the siblings. "Did you manage to secure the alliance with Orzammar?"

"We did," Alistair confirmed, visibly dismissing the wistful expression that had come over his features as he looked at Talia and her brother. He would never know such a reunion, and the bard gave him an understanding smile, even as she fought down the anxiety that churned in her own belly. Talia had said that her family would have welcomed the Orlesian, but that had been when they both believed the rest of the Couslands all dead. Now, with the prospect of meeting her lover's brother both inevitable and imminent -

"Incredible!" Perth exclaimed. "That's all of them, then! I can scarcely believe that you managed it, but it will only strengthen the Arl's position at the Landsmeet."

"Their help in dealing with the Blight being a secondary concern?" Alistair inquired dryly, though a flicker of unease in his eyes betrayed that he knew full well what Eamon's 'position' was: that Alistair was the legitimate and viable heir to the Fereldan throne. He would be a good king, though the bard knew that he did not believe it, and knew as well that he dreaded the mere prospect of being compelled to take the crown worn by his father and half-brother.

"Well, no. That would of course be a paramount concern," Perth fumbled awkwardly, "but, to tell you the truth, the darkspawn seem to be fewer and fewer. It's been over a month since we've had word of any major attacks, and we were beginning to hope that it wasn't a true Blight, after all."

"It's a Blight." Talia's voice startled them all, and they turned to find her leaning against Fergus' chest, her arms still wrapped around him, but her gaze fixed on Ser Perth. Her eyes were still bright with tears, but they also sparked with irritation and something else, a look that Leliana knew well: her Warden was thinking about something, and not an idle thought. "We saw the archdemon."

The Redcliffe knight paled. "The archdemon? You're sure?"

"There's not much else that it could have been," Alistair replied before Talia could respond. "It's gathered the darkspawn in the Deep Roads, and is moving them south, likely back to the Korcari Wilds, where they first broke through." This news drew an uneasy murmur from the Chasind.

"It was worth hoping for, anyway," Perth said ruefully. "The Maker knows that Loghain has been doing more than enough damage on his own. Eamon will want to hear this."

"Has he called the Landsmeet, then?" Talia asked, stepping away from Fergus slightly, her face still wearing that slightly distracted look that meant she was turning something over in her mind.

"Not yet," the knight replied. "He was hoping for your return before he did so, and it will still be some weeks before the snows melt enough to make travel practical. The Arl wants as much of the nobility present as possible."

"Of course, he does," Alistair muttered, looking slightly ill.

The group of Chasind, eight men in all, had drawn closer to Fergus and Talia, and one now stepped away from the rest. Tall and rangy, his dark hair was almost hidden beneath the wealth of feathers, beads and painted bits of carved bone that adorned his braids. His cloak looked to have been made whole from the hide of a bear, and alone among his kinsman, he shared with Fergus the slash of red paint across the forehead in addition to the clan designs.

"It is good that I may finally meet my other sister," he said, his Fereldan heavily accented but still clear. "My brother has waited long for this day."

Talia accepted his words with a polite nod, dismissing whatever her thoughts might be to greet the newcomer, her expression faintly puzzled as she tipped a questioning glance to Fergus.

"Temulun is my battle-brother," he explained. "The Otter Clan found me damn near dead and cared for me. I've been with them since Ostagar." His tone was almost apologetic, as though he should not have accepted any companionship in lieu of the family he had lost, but Talia gave him a quick hug and stepped away, offering the Chasind a formal salute, arms crossed over her chest.

"The brother of my brother is my brother, as well," she told him. "I am in your debt for saving his life."

Temulun shook his head solemnly. "Gan'Chinua has repaid his life-debt to us, so none is owed. I share his blood-debt now." He turned his right hand to reveal a palm etched with scars, one noticeably fresher than the rest, then captured Fergus' right wrist to show the single scar across the Cousland heir's palm. "Neither of us will rest until the murderer of his family, and yours, lies dead."

"Gan'Chinua?" Talia asked curiously.

"It means 'Steel Wolf' in our tongue," Temulun explained. "Many foes who have felt the bite of his blade would agree that he is well named, if they still lived to do so. The Howe will join that number; this I swear."

Talia accepted this with a slow nod, her eyes as hard as obsidian as she said, "I claim the blood-debt, as well. The Blight must be met first, however."

The Chasind chuckled. "It is as you said, Gan'Chinua," he said to Fergus. "She is blood of your blood."

"That she is." Fergus' eyes gleamed with a fierce and bittersweet pride. "Care to meet your extended family, little sister?"

Talia laughed, looking suddenly like the girl she must have been on the eve of Howe's betrayal, and Leliana felt her heart wrench with joy and longing, even as the nervous churning in her stomach increased as her Warden replied, "Only if I get to introduce you to my half of it after!"

"I wouldn't have it any other way." Fergus' gaze held a more frank curiosity now as he looked at each of them in turn, and the bard felt her stomach lurch as the green eyes lingered last upon her. They had not been in Redcliffe since returning from Ostagar, though they had dispatched a message advising the Arl when they departed for Orzammar, but he had likely heard rumors from other sources. Did they make mention of his sister's lover? If he knew, he gave no sign, turning back to Talia and saying only, "I think it's fortunate that we have some time before the Landsmeet; I have a feeling that we've both got tales to tell."

The Chasind maintained their distance as Fergus introduced them one by one, and Leliana noticed that Temulun was the only one who would look directly at Talia for more than a second or two, and that even he would not look long at the other women of their group. She had learned little of the Chasind as a bard; as they did not involve themselves in international politics, they were largely ignored. Obviously, she would need to correct that deficiency. She hoped that there were some women included in the Otter Clan, as it did not seem likely that the men would speak with her.

When he had finished, Talia brought her fellow Warden forward first. "This is Alistair," she told Fergus, "my other brother."

"It is an honor, Your Highness," Fergus said, starting to bow.

"No!" Alistair yelped. He had already begun to flush with embarrassed pleasure at Talia's words, but he turned a deep scarlet at the stares that his reaction drew. "Not until Arl Eamon makes it official, please. I'm still hoping for another royal bastard to come out of the woodwork." He realized what he'd said and his color darkened to brick red. "Maker, that's case in point why I _shouldn't_ be," he muttered. "Just...call me Alistair for now and I'll be happy."

"Alistair it is, then," Fergus agreed readily, accepting a handshake from the reluctant prince.

One by one, Talia introduced her companions. All except for Oghren were known to the knights of Redcliffe, but the Chasind regarded Sten with wary curiosity and Shayle with frank wonder. An agitated murmur rose up among them when Morrigan was introduced; she regarded them with a haughty disdain before accepting Fergus' greeting with a cool politeness.

Through it all, Leliana waited, her anxiety growing by the moment. Talia's gaze shifted frequently to her, something that she was sure had not escaped the elder Cousland. Then, Oghren was stepping back after offering (with only a single belch interrupting) to assist in separating Rendon Howe's head from the rest of his anatomy, and Talia's fingers were intertwining with hers as the warrior drew her forward.

"This is Leliana." Talia lifted her eyes to meet her brother's as she added simply, "I love her." The dark eyes gleamed with pride and no hint of compromise, all but daring her brother to object, and Leliana felt torn between pleasure and chagrin; she did not want to be the cause of friction between Talia and the last of her family.

Fergus, however, just nodded, an old sorrow touching his green eyes as he leaned forward to kiss his sister's forehead. "Be happy, then," he said softly, "for however long the Maker gives you, and may it be many, many years." His eyes cut to Leliana, a gentle humor pushing away the sorrow. "I'm not sure whether to offer congratulations or condolences," he joked, earning an indignant slap on the shoulder from his sister. The mirth faded as he added with a quiet warmth, "But welcome. I am honored to meet the one who has captured my sister's wayward heart."

"The honor is mine, Your Grace," Leliana replied, as relief washed over her, cursing herself for the nervous slip a moment later.

Fergus only chuckled, the flash of pain there and gone as quickly as it so often was with Talia. "I've no more desire for a title than Alistair, and I'll certainly not have my new sister addressing me by one," he teased her, steel creeping into his voice as he added, "Besides, I've been informed that the title has already been bestowed upon another. I'll see it properly restored before I accept it. The Blight must come first, however," he went on, "and Arl Eamon is waiting. He ordered his cook to prepare a proper welcome feast as soon as the first lookout spotted you."

" _Now_ we're talkin'!" Oghren exclaimed with almost as much enthusiasm as he'd shown at the prospect of battle. Wynne sighed, Alistair rolled his eyes and Morrigan gave the dwarf a look of disgust, but Fergus chuckled with an understanding look.

"I'll wager you're as tired of camp rations as we were when we got here," he said, draping his arm around Talia's shoulders, and turning back onto the road toward Redcliffe, the Warden drawing Leliana close on her other side, "and we've all definitely got a lot to talk about."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the kind of reunion I was envisioning in-game between Talia and her brother, so you can imagine my reaction to the "Oh, hi! Great to see you, gotta go!" scene at the coronation.


	49. A Change In Plans

"No."

Talia's voice was quiet and calm, but undeniably firm, bringing all other conversation in the chamber to a halt. Fergus regarded his sister curiously, still experiencing a disorienting double vision in which the memory of the playful and irreverent girl he had left at Highever the previous spring tried to superimpose itself over the quiet and intense woman warrior whose demeanor made it quite plain that she expected her words to be heeded.

She'd been almost her old self for much of the previous day, bubbling over with joy at finding him alive and trying to tell him everything about the past months, at times seemingly in a single breath, but their shared grief pressed in more than once, and they would both be in tears for a time before either could speak again. They had been given respectful solitude for a few hours before Isolde had cautiously interrupted to inform them that dinner would be served soon.

Talia had vanished for nearly an hour, and when she returned, arm in arm with the Orlesian redhead, he'd barely recognized her: wearing a _dress_ , of all things, and with her hair done up in an elegant version of the simple braid she'd sported earlier in the day. The grin that lit her face at his double-take was all shyness and mischief, and in that moment, despite the brown eyes she'd inherited from Bryce Cousland, she looked so much like their mother had in her lighter moods that the realization nearly brought him to his knees.

Dinner had been a lighthearted affair, with most of the conversation during and after centered upon what deeds one group or the other had accomplished in the months since Ostagar. Wine and ale flowed freely, and several of the Redcliffe knights made the mistake of drinking with Oghren as he spun tales of the Deep Roads that made Fergus' blood run cold.

"Surely he's exaggerating?" he murmured when he found Leliana at his elbow, listening to the dwarf's rumbling voice describing the battle with the broodmother. That such a thing could exist, that it could be created in such a horrifying fashion...

"Only the degree of his own heroics, and not by much." The bard attempted a smile, but her eyes were shadowed. "It was a monstrosity, but pitiful, as well. And after seeing so many darkspawn, I cannot help but think of how many such creatures remain in the Deep Roads, suffering in darkness and insanity, and I wonder how many of them recall their lives before. How many of them had husbands, lovers, children..." She trailed off, her expression haunted, and Fergus began to suspect that, as incredible as Oghren's account might be, it might well be understated, rather than exaggerated.

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Talia; his sister was ostensibly in a conversation with Bann Teagan, but Fergus doubted that it was any accident that she had positioned her chair to allow her to see Fergus and Leliana clearly. Teagan Guerrin was one of the more eligible bachelors in Ferelden, and at one time, seeing the man talking with Talia might have brought on thoughts of a potential match, but while he was far from the only man to take notice of the Grey Warden's changed appearance, Talia had eyes only for Leliana.

That she was a woman troubled Fergus little; while uncommon in Ferelden, such things were far from unheard of. What he had learned of her background had given him no small hesitation, but it was plain that both Talia and Alistair, as well as Wynne, trusted the Orlesian implicitly, and whatever changes the long months had wrought in his sister, she had never been a fool.

The redhead followed his gaze, a rueful and affectionate smile touching her lips at Talia's scrutiny. "She didn't send me," she told him, her lilting voice gentle, with the practiced cadence of a storyteller. "I told her that I wanted to speak with you. We should get to know each other, no?" She cocked her head at him, her smile at once engaging and hesitant, and he knew there was more to it than that.

Before he could ask, her smile faltered again as Oghren's voice rose, telling of the broodmother's death. "Perhaps we could move further away?" she suggested. "I've had more than enough firsthand experience with such things, and little desire to revisit them so soon."

"Of course, my lady," he agreed readily. Part of him hungered to know everything that had happened to his sister in their time apart, but he suspected that there would be moments that would have the protective brother in him ready to wrap her in wool and bundle her away safe...and he knew how well that would be received. Better to learn such things over time than all at once, he decided.

He led her to a spot beside one of the great fireplaces, careful to keep them in Talia's view and sending her a wink and a grin. _I'm not going to hurt her, little sister_. The smile that he got in return was sheepish, and Talia visibly turned her attention back to Teagan. She wanted badly for him to accept her lover, and despite his assurances on the road outside Redcliffe, she plainly knew that his full judgment would be reserved until he had been given a chance to observe the newcomer in more detail. She had been similarly reserved with Oriana when he had first brought her to Redcliffe, though the gentle Antivan had quickly won her over.

"I am sorry for your loss," Leliana said quietly, easily deciphering the wave of melancholy that swept over him at the thought of his wife, "but I rejoice that the Maker has been merciful enough to bring you and your sister back together. Talia was devastated when she thought you dead with the rest; she still grieves for them, though not so harshly as before."

"We both do," he replied, guilt joining the sorrow, though there had been no censure in her words. He had known for months that his sister lived: months in which she had believed herself alone. "I wish more than anything that I had been there for her, but I am glad that she found such steadfast friends to strengthen her."

He couldn't help but smile as he spoke, his eyes lifting from Leliana, shifting briefly to Sten, Shayle, Oghren, Morrigan. How in blazes Talia had managed to assemble and maintain such an eclectic group of allies was beyond him, but it was plain that it was his sister to whom each of them - including Alistair - looked to as leader.

"We are an odd assortment, are we not?" Leliana's soft laugh drew his attention back to her, and he realized that she had again read his expression as adeptly as if he had spoken his thoughts. A valuable ally...or a formidable foe.

"I would have picked a more diplomatic term," he replied, regarding her thoughtfully, "but I strongly doubt that Talia would have survived without your assistance and support. Not that my own allies are any more conventional." He fingered a red-painted bone that adorned one of his braids; it marked his first kill with the Chasind: a great cat that had attacked the hunting party for the buck that they were carrying back to the clan.

"No," Leliana admitted, her smile fading slightly, "but I know that I cannot be what you expected...or likely hoped for as a match for your sister."

"Well, I'll admit to being in a bit of a quandary," he told her. "Were you a man, I could simply be gruff and intimidating and demand to know your intentions, but -"

"But because I am a woman, you cannot?" The blue eyes twinkled ever so slightly. "Underestimating a woman because she is a woman is a mistake that many men make, but given your sister, I would have expected you to know better."

"Very well, then." Stifling his own smile, he crossed his arms and stared down at her, trying his best to look intimidating. "What exactly are your intentions toward my sister?" he demanded gruffly.

Leliana giggled, covering her mouth with a hand, but she glanced toward Talia, and her smile turned tender, making his heart ache with the memories of times when Oriana had looked at him so. "Her happiness," she said simply. "I love her, Fergus, with all my heart. The road that she has been placed upon is a dangerous one; much has already been required of her, and more will be, and yet she still cares about those who travel with her. Even knowing what I had been, what I had done, she still accepted me, protected me..."

"Loves you," Fergus finished for her. She nodded silently, her heart in her eyes. "I would be less than honest if I said that your past was not a concern to me," he admitted, "but that my sister loves you, and dearly, is very plain. You got her to wear a dress." He shook his head in amazement, thinking wistfully of all the battles that Eleanor had fought with her daughter on that score. "I think that Mother would embrace you for that feat alone, and...I do believe that you love her, and that your desire to atone for past mistakes is genuine. I want her to be happy, as well, and you have done that. I could ask for nothing more from any man or woman." He paused, then added wryly. "I suppose this is the point at which I threaten bodily harm to you if you hurt her?"

Leliana laughed again, but her eyes were serious as she replied, "I think it is, and I would expect nothing else from her brother. I would hope to die myself before being the cause of harm to her."

"I would hope for neither," he told her, "but be that as it may..." He resumed his forbidding posture, glowering down at her. "Hurt her and I'll thrash you to an inch of your life," he growled, part of him still expecting Nan to appear behind him to give his ear a painful tweak for speaking so to a woman.

"I will not," she promised him, the words sincere despite the amusement that danced in her eyes.

"Good." He smiled at her and bowed, offering his arm. "Now that we've got that out of the way."

She had taken his arm, and they had returned to the table. Talia had been delighted, and the rest of the evening had passed in a peace that seemed nothing short of blessed, after so many months of uncertainty and strife.

When she had come down this morning, however, she had been wearing the Warden Commander's armor, the damage done in the Deep Roads repaired by the incomparable skill of the dwarves, and the deep blue enameling restored to a satin sheen, the twin gryphons embossed in silver on the breastplate gleaming in the lamplight. Her face had held a gravity that he had never seen in her: serious and determined. Though she greeted him with open affection, there was a restraint about her that had not been present the previous day, and she would not long meet his eyes without looking away.

Though the Landsmeet was still weeks away, Eamon had been keen to begin the planning of the strategy that they would use to counter Loghain's claims and depose him as Regent (or King, as the most recent reports claimed that he now used that title). To that end, he had planned a meeting to follow breakfast, inviting Fergus, Talia, Alistair and Wynne to join he and Teagan in his study. Wynne was included because of her status as a Senior Enchanter in the Circle; none of the Wardens' other companions were included, a fact that visibly displeased Talia, but when she had glanced to Leliana, the bard had shaken her head 'no', and Talia had acceded with a reluctant nod.

She had listened in silence as Eamon an Teagan began to lay out their planned justification for presenting Alistair as Maric's heir, and Fergus couldn't help feel a twinge of sympathy for the younger man. The Warden plainly did not want to fill the role that had been designated for him, but just as plainly saw no other choice available, so he sat, visibly uncomfortable, but without protest until the discussion turned to plans for a marriage between he and Anora.

"Now wait a minute!" he protested. "We depose her father, and then I marry her? That's not exactly the best way to start a marriage, is it? Besides, we don't even know each other; what if she doesn't like me? What if I don't like her?"

"Such considerations are not generally a factor in weddings of state, Your Highness," Eamon explained patiently. Despite Alistair's stated preference, Eamon had begun to refer to him by that title as soon as he had stepped through the doors of Redcliffe, and Alistair's attempt to curtail it had only gotten him drawn aside for what appeared to be a lecture that seemed more fitting for a tutor to give to a recalcitrant pupil than an Arl to deliver to his proposed monarch.

"Despite Loghain's behavior, Anora remains popular with the people," Teagan put in. "Likely because he has kept her shielded from his own decisions; she's not even been seen in public for weeks. That could work in our favor. Add to that the fact that she is the only heir to the Teyrnir of Gwaren, and I have to agree that a marriage to her would strengthen your claim and silence many of those who are concerned about the circumstances of your birth."

"That whole royal bastard thing, you mean?" Alistair asked bluntly. "So, all I have to do is marry my brother's widow, and poof! I'm legitimate?" The bitterness in his voice was unmistakeable, as was the resignation. Fergus couldn't really blame him; he could not find any memories of Alistair from his youthful visits to Redcliffe, a fact that shamed him. He'd taken his position as the Highever heir, and the privilege that accompanied it, so much for granted then, too busy training with the Redcliffe knights to notice a boy who worked in the stables...as Eamon had no doubt intended. Maric's son been an embarrassment; a scandal waiting to be uncovered. Unimportant and unwanted then, and now the weight of a kingdom being placed on his shoulders by the same man who had ignored him as a boy.

"Illegitimacy is no real obstacle to inheriting the throne." Eamon's didactic tone made it clear that he was oblivious to the frustration that Alistair was experiencing, intent only that Maric's remaining heir take the throne that was rightfully his (and perhaps elevate Eamon to the role of trusted adviser? Fergus' mind suggested cynically. The power behind a youthful and inexperienced King?). "That precedent has been set in many foreign kingdoms, Antiva being the most recent. Any objections on those grounds will carry little weight to begin with, and a marriage to Anora will undermine them almost completely."

"The Circle will support you, Alistair." Wynne leaned forward to cover his hand with hers, her expression sympathetic. "Irving will not forget that it was you and Talia who aided us, and Loghain's antipathy toward mages is well known."

"You will have the support of Highever, as well," Fergus promised, though it felt presumptuous to say it. He wasn't even Teyrn in name at the moment, nor could he say what condition Highever might be in once he did reclaim it. Despite this, Eamon looked pleased, and seemed ready to continue his planning when Talia uttered that single word:

"No."

He looked down the table at her, frowning slightly, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. "I beg your pardon, Lady Cousland?"

"My title, Your Excellency," Talia said, rising slowly from her seat. "is Warden Commander, and regardless of his parentage, Alistair cannot be the King of Ferelden."

"Yes! No...wait. What?" Alistair's face was a baffled play of relief and consternation; clearly, Talia had not consulted him before embarking on whatever course she had planned. Wynne seemed similarly surprised, but not particularly concerned, settling back in her chair and watching with quiet interest, the faintest hint of amusement gleaming in her eyes at the consternation that Talia's words stirred up.

"Warden Commander, then." Eamon gave Alistair a suspicious glance, then turned his attention back to Talia. "Though it seems to me that as Alistair is the senior Grey Warden that -"

"Me? Nope." Alistair shook his head. "She's the leader; ask Wynne." He sent the mage an appealing look.

"While it has been much more of a joint command in recent weeks," Wynne began, her eyes on Talia as though trying to divine her intent and frame her words to better support her, "I must concur with Alistair. Talia has taken on the duties generally assumed by the Warden Commander, and it is she who should be considered as commander of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden."

"All two of them," Eamon pointed out with a dismissive snort.

"All the more reason why I will not release him from his duty as a Warden," Talia replied, still calm. "The Blight must be my first concern, and his."

"That goes without saying," Eamon agreed in a suddenly placating tone, though only days before the Wardens' return, Fergus had listened to the Arl musing over the possibility that the sudden paucity of darkspawn indicated that a true Blight was not imminent, "but there should be no reason why afterward, he could -"

"There are several reasons," Talia cut him off smoothly, clearly anticipating that angle. "Loghain has been propagating the lie that the Grey Wardens were responsible for the King's death and the massacre at Ostagar. If a Grey Warden tries to claim the throne, he can point to that as support for his claims, strengthening his backing in the Bannorn. There is also the fact that Grey Wardens are forbidden to have titles; their duty must be their first and strongest concern. Lastly - and I must request that this fact not leave this room - Grey Wardens are very unlikely to have children."

"What?" Eamon had quite clearly been gearing up to counter her argument, but her last point clearly caught him off guard. "Are you saying they are forbidden to do that, too? Surely in such extraordinary circumstances, an exception could be made?"

"It is not forbidden," Talia replied gravely. "I cannot reveal more than this, but the traits that allow Wardens to fight effectively against the darkspawn prevent them from having children."

"It's true," Alistair put in, still clearly puzzled by Talia's initiative but more than willing to support it. "None of the Wardens who died at Ostagar had children, and Duncan said that the only ones that he knew of who did were those who underwent the Joining later in life, after their children were born."

"Prevent? You said that it was unlikely; it's not impossible, then?" Eamon was almost pleading with her, but Talia remained unmoved.

"Are you willing to bet the future of Ferelden on it?" she asked him quietly.

He sank slowly back into his chair, his expression crumbling into despair. "We _must_ have a viable candidate for the throne if we are to have any chance of opposing Loghain at the Landsmeet!"

"We -" Talia suddenly showed the first uncertainty Fergus had seen in her that day: dropping her eyes and letting her hands rest on the table's edge, fingers curling into the wood as she swallowed hard before lifting her gaze to the Arl once more.

"We do," she said, her voice firm and clear, her eyes somber.

"What?" Eamon looked utterly baffled for a moment, but comprehension slowly seeped into his face, and his gaze turned downward.

Coming to rest squarely upon Fergus Cousland.

"I'll be damned," Teagan murmured, eying Talia with surprised respect. "You know, that just might work."

"What?" Fergus demanded incredulously, suddenly understanding all too well how Alistair had felt. He came to his feet, his blazing eyes locking with those of his sister, who simply returned his stare with that infuriating calmness. "Gentlemen – and Wynne," he said between clenched teeth, "I would like a word with -" _My little sister_ "-the Warden Commander...alone."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this chapter we begin our trek off the path of canon into the world of AU, but I just couldn't help it. The hole in the plot logic caused by the whole concept of "Grey Wardens probably can't have kids, but not only can Alistair or a male Cousland Warden become King, but a Female Cousland Warden can become Alistair's queen, thereby reducing the chances of royal progeny to nil" was big enough to fly an archdemon through. If a Cousland Warden would make a suitable candidate for the throne, it stands to reason that the eldest surviving Cousland heir would also be a viable choice.
> 
> Apart from Talia's little bombshell at the end, it's another of those quiet chapters that I'm fond of, where I get to let characters just interact with each other. In this case, it was Leliana and Fergus, and I was very pleased with the way their little chat unfolded. Being new to the dynamics of the group, using Fergus's POV let me look at them with fresh eyes, and it also let me touch briefly on the changes that have taken place in Talia since the siblings parted, something that it's going to take Fergus a bit to get used to, starting with the next chapter ;-)


	50. A Private Chat

Fergus waited until the door to the study swung shut, plus a few moments longer, to give any who might linger no obvious excuse to remain nearby, before spinning back to face his sister, no longer trying to hide the outrage that suffused his face.

"What in blazes do you think you are doing?" he demanded. "How dare you make such a proposal without -"

"Without consulting you?" she interrupted him, dark eyes grave and not in the least cowed by his ire. "If you'd known about it, if you had reacted in any way but the way that you did, Eamon would have suspected a conspiracy. He can't comprehend that anyone _wouldn't_ want the throne." Her lips quirked in a sardonic smile that never came near her eyes.

He had to admit that she had a point, and his anger cooled a bit, but - "Why me? I know that Eamon is too old, but Teagan is a decent age, and unmarried. He was Queen Rowan's brother -"

"And he's a Bann," Talia replied without hesitation. "If we put him forward, we'll have half the Bannorn raising claims of their own. You are the legitimate heir to one of two teyrnirs in Ferelden, second only to the King in rank. Our father was considered a viable candidate for the throne when Maric was believed dead during the rebellion." She snorted. " _Loghain_ put him forward as a possible regent until Cailan came of age when the King vanished on the Deep Roads expedition."

Fergus regarded his sister bemusedly, wondering just how much of Aldous' history lessons she had actually absorbed when she'd been to all appearances doing nothing but fidgeting and staring out the window. "That's true enough," he admitted. Maric's Deep Roads excursion was well enough known, though the details had been zealously guarded. Grey Wardens, Orlesians, mages and rumors of an attempted coup had all been mentioned, but nothing had ever been confirmed, and with Loghain now the lone survivor of the incident, the truth of the matter would likely never be fully known. "But a son of Maric, illegitimate or not, would still have a stronger claim."

"Except that there is no proof that Alistair is really Maric's son," Talia replied with a shrug. "No documentation, nothing in the way of acknowledgment by the King while he was alive, and despite the resemblance, there will be no shortage of nobles who think that it's nothing more than Eamon making an indirect play for power. Your blood is unquestionable, and the Cousland line second only to the Theirins, unbroken for five hundred years. No one will contest your claim, not with Loghain doing what he's been doing."

"Except those who believe his lies about Father conspiring with the Orlesians and the Grey Wardens murdering Cailan," Fergus countered quietly, still feeling the slow burn of rage that had been with him ever since he had heard of the specious lie that had been used to justify the slaughter of his family.

"I don't think those will number as many as you might think," Talia replied, moving to the window and staring out at the snow-covered ground of the courtyard. "Those who supported the Hero of River Dane have seen something quite different from him now. Nothing in Father's past or behavior support the idea that he would turn traitor, and the correspondence we found at Ostagar makes no mention of him at all, though it does indicate that Cailan was considering an alliance with Orlais." She paused, then went on, "And it also offers a strong motive for Loghain to want Cailan dead."

"The letter from Eamon urging Cailan to set Anora aside, you mean?" Fergus nodded. "I can't imagine any father being happy with that, and it wasn't exactly fair to Anora." He shook his head slowly. "It was common knowledge that Cailan was rarely in Denerim." He paused, then couldn't help adding with a faint smile, "Mother did get around to explaining to you what is involved in making babies, didn't she?"

"More or less," his sister replied wryly, glancing back at him with a hint of sadness behind the smile in her eyes. "Does that mean that you'd be willing to marry her, then?"

Fergus felt his jaw drop, wondering at what point his sister would stop dropping these surprises on him; Maker's blood, she'd known he was alive for less than a day, and she had still managed to lay a plan with startling detail. "Anora? Are you serious? Talia, I haven't even agreed to this whole king notion yet!"

"You will," Talia replied calmly, turning away from the window and leaning against the sill. "We were raised by the same parents, Fergus, and Highever isn't our inheritance: duty is. I became a Grey Warden because duty required it of me, and you will accept the crown for the same reason."

It was stated as a fact, not a command, but he still felt rebellion rise. "But I don't _want_ to be King." He knew he sounded petulant, childish, but he didn't care. "I didn't even want to be Teyrn...not until Father died of extreme old age."

Her laugh surprised him; there was no bitterness to the sound, only a genuine amusement that drew the beginnings of an answering smile from him in spite of himself.

"I'd get that out of your system before spending much time around Wynne," she advised him. "She has a way of putting things in perspective that is hard to argue with. You want Oren and Oriana back, and Mother and Father, just as I do," she went on, serious once more. "We can't have what we want the most, but we can at least try to go forward in the way they would want us to."

"At least you get to choose who you'll spend your life with," he muttered resentfully. He knew that Oriana would not have wanted him to grieve for her forever, but the prospect of a political marriage -

"For now," Talia replied obliquely, a shadow flitting across her face and gone. "It may not even wind up being a possibility. It could be that she's in this up to her neck with her father and Howe. She may have even been involved in Cailan's death."

"But you don't think so?" Fergus guessed, watching her face closely.

She shook her head. "The reports that Eamon has received indicate that she was at odds with Loghain before she dropped out of sight. I'd say that there's a better chance that she's dead." Her expression was bleak. "People in Rendon Howe's way tend to meet untimely ends."

"Would Loghain just sit by and let the bastard do that?" Fergus couldn't help feeling aghast at the notion. "She's his daughter...his only child!"

"Ferelden has always been his first priority, from what I understand," Talia said. "Between that and the fact that there's a good possibility that he's lost his mind, I don't care to speculate what he might be capable of." She shrugged. "Regardless, you will have to marry, and produce heirs with whomever you choose as your Queen."

"Heirs?" he echoed, noticing to himself that they had already moved past the issue of the crown as though it had been settled...which he supposed it had.

"Yes, heirs," she replied, stressing the plural. "There will be two vacant teyrnirs; I'd suggest appointing regents from among the Bannorn until you've got children of an age to marry and put into place in Highever and Gwaren, so..." she paused, a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes. "I'd say three, at least."

He stared at her, torn between admiration and exasperation. "Now?" he demanded at last. " _Now_ I find out that you were paying attention to Father's talks on politics?"

"I've had to learn a lot the last few months," she said simply. "The politics of Orzammar make the Bannorn look uncomplicated by comparison. I know I'm not doing you any favors, Fergus," she went on, her expression growing melancholy, "but Ferelden will need a strong King to see it through the years after the Blight, and you're the best choice. The only choice, really."

"What will you be doing after the Blight?" he asked suddenly. "I know that Grey Wardens aren't supposed to hold titles, but surely you could serve as the regent for Highever? Killing an archdemon ought to earn you some sort of dispensation, shouldn't it?"

He knew the answer even before he saw her heartbreakingly sad smile. "Fergus, the Blights of the past have had Grey Wardens by the score to meet them. Ferelden has two. I'm not keeping Alistair from the throne because I think he'd do a bad job, or even entirely because of the issue of children, or any of the rest of what I told Eamon. The odds of us both surviving this long were slim; the odds that we'll both survive killing the archdemon...assuming that we manage to do that -" She paused, then shrugged, and for the first time that day, he saw the sister that he remembered, young and frightened but fighting for a brave face, "- well, I wouldn't put much money on it, and Ferelden doesn't need to lose another king so soon."

He couldn't speak; it felt as though iron bands were constricting across his chest. Coming around the table, he caught her in a fierce embrace. He was her older brother; he should be protecting her as their father no longer could, not sitting calmly at a table discussing sending her to near-certain death, while he - _I don't want this...any of it!_

If he could have saved her by refusing the throne, he'd have done it in a heartbeat, but the training that had been even more rigorously instilled in him: the eldest and heir, pointed out that his best chance for preserving what remained of his family lay in going along with her audacious plan. "As King, I'll be able to revive the alliance with Orlais," he told her, holding her at arm's length, making certain that his words sunk in. "We'll be able to bring in reinforcements, perhaps even the Orlesian Wardens."

"Perhaps," she echoed softly, a hint of hope in her eyes. "But if I don't -" She broke off, looked away, then back at him, her gaze beseeching. "If something happens to me, take care of Leli, please? Don't let her do anything foolish. And Alistair. I know he doesn't believe it, but he'd be a good Commander of the Grey -"

"Stop that!" he scolded her with a little shake. _Let Alistair be the one who dies._ He didn't voice the thought, hated himself for even thinking it, because he'd seen already how strong was the bond that his sister shared with the man...but it was there, all the same, even knowing that it was just as likely that both of them would perish or – Maker willing – neither of them. He swallowed hard to loosen the tightness in his throat. "We'll...deal with that when we have to," he told her. "For now, let's just focus on the road at our feet."

She met his eyes, nodded slowly. "You'll do it, then?"

He drew a deep, steadying breath. _Oriana, you would understand...wouldn't you?_ "I'll do it," he said firmly, hugging her one more time before returning to the door to admit the others to the room to continue the planning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had anticipated the argument to be more drawn out, but Fergus and Talia do share the same sense of duty. Once again, I find myself referring to Stolen Throne and The Calling for the pre-Origins lore. I'm hoping that I've made the background clear enough without anyone who hasn't read them feeling that they have to, because I can't really give a strong recommendation to either. Not bad, not good, just...meh. And Maric made Cailan look like a pretty good king, IMO, which is really not the impression I got of him from the game.


	51. A Promise Kept, A Promise Broken

Sneaking had never been Talia's strong point, partially due to her preference for directness, but largely because it was all but impossible to move silently in plate armor. With that in mind, she had contrived the excuse the previous afternoon of leaving her armor with the smith for some minor repair to the straps. She was not much better at lying than she was at sneaking, and she had been morbidly certain that Leliana would see through her subterfuge, but the bard had accepted her words without question. Deceiving her lover was not an accomplishment that the warrior could take pride in, however, particularly when she knew that her present course of action would cause Leliana even greater distress.

Nor could she silence the soft but persistent voice within that pointed out the hypocrisy of putting her own life at risk only days after arguing successfully that Alistair could not be released from his duties because so few Grey Wardens remained to face the archdemon. She did ignore the voice, however, slipping in silence from her bed after one last, long look at Leliana, drinking in the sight of the Orlesian as she slept, her expression peaceful, her red hair falling across the pillow. She wanted to steal a final kiss, bury her face in the silken hair and breathe deep the scents of moonlight and flowers to sustain her over the coming days, but she dared not risk waking the bard.

Instead, she dressed quickly and quietly, and left their room with Brego at her side: the only one of her companions that she intended to accompany her on this fool's quest. The rest would be left behind, to support Alistair, should she not survive her endeavor.

Her decision had been based partly upon cold calculation and partly upon emotion that was anything but cold. One Grey Warden would not be at any more significant disadvantage against the archdemon than two, she reasoned, and their chances of survival, whether one or two, were beyond slim. If she died fighting the archdemon, she would be unable to keep her promise to Morrigan.

Despite what she'd said to the witch, the fact that she had helped save Leliana's life played no small role in Talia's decision to act now, before they left for Denerim. She had put it off as long as she could, giving the weather time to improve and spending as much time as she could in the presence of those she loved, knowing that it might be the last. It was insane to do this, and reckless, and no doubt Wynne would have other choice words to describe it, but Talia could not conceive of doing otherwise. She paid her debts, and she took care of her friends…and Morrigan was beyond doubt a friend, no matter how the witch might protest that such things as friendship were weaknesses that she did not require. No one deserved the fate that Flemeth had decreed for her 'daughter', and if Talia did not act now, she might not get another chance.

Dawn was still some hours away as she moved through the halls of Redcliffe Castle, turning aside the inquiries from the few guards that she encountered with the excuse that Brego was restless and in need of exercise. She'd risen early the past three mornings, so even if Leliana woke and found her absent from their bed, it would not raise suspicions until later. It was vital that she get as great a head start as possible.

Entering the deserted smithy, she quickly donned her armor and strapped her shield to her back with a water skin beneath it, wishing that she dared carry provisions, but being seen leaving with a full backpack would surely rouse suspicions. She made do with snares and fishing line and hooks in her belt pouch; between that and Brego's hunting, they should manage for the few days they'd be gone.

"You're up and moving early, Commander," Ser Perth remarked as she approached the gates that led out of Redcliffe. Since she'd thrown her weight around in the meeting, Arl Eamon had taken to calling her by the title that she had claimed, and while the formality made her twitchy, if that was what was required for Eamon to take her seriously, then it was a price she would pay (though she'd cuffed Alistair when he tried to use it on her).

"The beast has been impossible the last couple of days," she replied, giving Brego a look of affectionate exasperation. "He's not used to staying in one place for so long, so I thought I'd take him out and exhaust him today. Hopefully, he'll be tired enough to leave me in peace tonight...or I'll be too tired to be woken up."

Perth chuckled. "I'm betting on the latter. If you run into any trouble, build a signal fire, and we'll get to you double time." The words were delivered without any real urgency; there were no darkspawn around, and the Redcliffe knights, along with the more recent arrivals to the arling, had quickly made any bandits in the area decide to move on to easier hunting grounds. There was nothing within a day's walk to be a concern to a fully armored Grey Warden and a mabari.

She stayed on the road for better than a mile, until the walls of Redcliffe Castle and the arms of the windmill were well out of sight, then plunged off into the scrubby growth that dotted the hills of the Hinterlands. There would be little real cover to lose herself in until she was much farther south; distance would be her only real ally, which meant putting as many miles between herself and Redcliffe as possible between now and lunch, which she figured would be the earliest that her absence would be remarked upon. A few hours beyond that for any real concern to set in, but by sunset, the search would be on in earnest. At least she wouldn't have to worry about Morrigan chasing her down as a bird of some sort; without the witch's aid, any pursuit would be on foot. The Arl kept a few horses, but so far as Talia knew, they were only to draw the coach that Isolde had brought from Orlais; she'd seen no saddles.

Not that such a lack would likely stop Leliana. The bard had learned to ride in Orlais, where horses were much more common, and Talia had little doubt that her training had included riding without tack.

_Damn it._

She glanced behind her, trying to determine how prominent her tracks might be, but the world was still shrouded in darkness, the trees - glorified shrubs, really – no more than hunched and bristling shadows around her, surrounded by patches of steadily melting snow that seemed almost incandescent in the darkness. The moon was only a sliver in the sky, all but overwhelmed by the multitude of stars that dotted the darkness overhead like diamonds cast onto black velvet.

No help for it. She turned and redoubled her pace, thankful that their months on the road had improved her endurance. She looked over her shoulder occasionally, ensuring that the Guide remained at her back, but the assurance that her course remained southward also increased the melancholy that tried to take root in her chest, remembering the tales of the stars and constellations that her lover had shared with her.

By the time the impending sunrise had silvered the eastern sky, casting the shadows into even starker relief and dimming moon and stars, the malaise was a near-physical ache, thinking of Leliana stirring, sleepy blue eyes turning to the empty pillow, never suspecting that Talia was miles away and further by the minute.

_I will never leave you._

That promise was no less real than the one she had made to Morrigan, but she could not keep one without breaking the other. She would not risk bringing her bard within striking distance of Flemeth; the canny witch would not fail to use Talia's feelings for Leliana to her own advantage. Not that she really needed any more advantages. Being an abomination of incalculable age was likely the only edge she would need to swat a lone Grey Warden like a pesky fly.

_Maker's blood, what are you thinking? This is insane!_

She staggered to a stop, her labored breath billowing in the cold air, conflicting images assaulting her mind: Morrigan's face in Denerim, the barely veiled fear and hurt beneath the scorn; Leliana's expression, vulnerable and tender when she had pleaded with Talia never to leave her. Alistair's trusting eyes dimming with puzzled accusation when he learned of her abandonment. Fergus' pain and grief. Wynne's disapproval. She sank to her knees with a moan, her fingers digging into Brego's fur as the mabari nudged her with a worried whine.

_What do I do? Father, what is right?_

She had turned almost unconsciously to the northeast, as though her eyes might be able to pierce the miles and see her childhood home, touch the spirit of her father and mother. She didn't want to die. The sight of the archdemon, massive and implacable, along with the countless darkspawn that it commanded, had brought brutally home just how slight their chances for survival would be, and since the messengers had gone out to call the Landsmeet, the sense of time slipping away had become almost palpable, giving a new urgency to her time alone with Leliana, a fierce need that both of them responded to, even as they carefully avoided any discussion of the reason.

Despite that, despite the shadow of worry and pain that touched her brother's eyes when he looked at her, she'd had no intention of shrinking from that harsh duty, but this...this was suicide, and a useless one, at that. She'd never be able to kill Flemeth on her own; her death would be a waste. Hurting Leliana and Fergus, abandoning Alistair...all for nothing. Morrigan would still be at her mother's mercy when Flemeth decided to claim her new vessel.

She could still go back, pretend that her stated objective had been her actual intent. No one would know. Morrigan would say nothing; likely, she didn't even expect that Talia would make the attempt. She'd released Talia from her request back at the Pearl, hadn't she?

Lies...and they weren't even good ones. Morrigan _would_ know, because Morrigan knew things, and while her masks of indifference and scorn might fool most, Talia would see the resigned hurt and the fear as the witch tried to convince herself that she had expected nothing else. She would have failed her friend, and she might not get another chance to make it right. All the same, she still could see no chance of success on her present course; if she went back, even if she didn't survive the Blight, she could make Fergus promise to see that it was done. The King of Ferelden, the might of his army: surely even Flemeth could not stand against such foes?

The crack of a twig behind her brought her to her feet, her hand on Starfang's hilt. She glanced down at Brego; the mabari was alert, but did not seem alarmed or agitated. The sound had been deliberate, and for a moment, she hovered between joy and panic, fully expecting to see red hair gleaming in the growing light of dawn.

It was not the bard who stepped from behind a tree, however, and her sword was half drawn before she identified the newcomer.

"Temulun?"

The Chasind approached, executing a passable bow as she let Starfang slide back into its sheath, and now others of the Otter Clan appeared one by one, as silent as Temulun undoubtedly would have been, had he not opted to give her notice of his presence.

"Greetings, my sister." Despite the Chasind customs that kept their women from fighting, Temulun had evidently accepted the fact that the northerners differed in their ways, and accepted Talia, as well, though more than a few of the others remained wary and disapproving. He was a taciturn man whose dark eyes were always alert; he spoke little, preferring to watch and listen, and Talia had quickly learned that he missed little. "It is a fine morning for a walk, is it not?"

Talia regarded him sharply. His Fereldan was accented but clear, and his tone gave nothing away. Though unlearned in the more traditional sense, Temulun had quickly proven himself highly intelligent, with a canniness honed by a lifetime of eking out an existence in the harsh environs of the Korcari Wilds. His wit was of the subtle variety, concealed in an understated manner that the less perceptive might take for diffidence and delivered in such a way that few of his targets were even aware of his jabs until long after the fact. She was uncertain if he was trying to be polite or mocking her...or perhaps a bit of both. "It is," she agreed cautiously. "Is Fergus with you?"

"Our brother still sleeps," Temulun replied. "It was my thought that he would not look with favor upon your task."

"My -" Talia broke off, on the verge of repeating the cover story she had given the guards at Redcliffe, but hesitated. In the first place, she was far enough away to raise obvious questions about the excuse, and in the second...well...Temulun was her brother. In a roundabout way, true enough, but the past months had taught her that blood was not the only way by which family was determined. "What do you know of my task?" she asked guardedly.

"You seek to kill the _Mongkenai_...the eternal one," he stated in a matter-of-fact manner.

Eternal one. Woman of many years. How many people running around fit those particular appellations?

"How do you know that?" Talia demanded, startled. She had told no one, and even if Morrigan had divined her intent, she would not have been likely to confide in the Wilders, whom she regarded with barely veiled contempt, and who, for their part, gave her a wide berth.

"The spirits have spoken to Chagatai," Temulun said, gesturing to the slender young man, only a couple of years older than Talia herself, who had become the acting shaman of the Otter Clan. Chagatai gave her a quick nod, the bones and feathers in his sun-bleached braids swaying with the movement, before his eyes shifted slightly in that subtle way that most of the Chasind males had of never looking directly at her - or any woman, for that matter. "They told him of your task."

A chill chased its way down Talia's spine. The Chasind looked differently at the matter of Fade spirits and demons, seeking active communication with both when they were in trances induced by a plant known as drakestongue. Possession resulted in immediate execution of the shaman in question, but from Fergus' tales, they approached the possibility with a casualness that would have raised the hair of the most adventurous Circle mage. That the denizens of the Fade would know of her at all, let alone take an interest in her doings, was not welcome news. Flemeth herself was said to be possessed by just such a spirit; did it know, as well?

"Did you come to take me back?" Part of her was relieved at the notion; she had been on the verge of convincing herself to return, after all, but she felt a reflexive rebellion arise at being escorted back like a truant child.

Temulun shook his head, white teeth flashing in a wolfish grin. "We will fight with you. The _Mongkenai_ will be destroyed, and the Otter Clan will gain great honor."

She stared at him, certain that she had not heard correctly. "I can't let you do that," she said at last, shaking her head. "She's not just a witch like Morrigan; she's...I'm not sure what she is, but she's powerful, and she won't just let us kill her. I won't be responsible for getting any of you killed; that's why I came alone in the first place."

"We will kill her," Chagatai spoke up, his light tenor voice halting; his mastery of Fereldan was not as complete as Temulun's, though he was learning quickly. "The spirits have seen it; they say that her time in the Wilds comes to an end."

"That's not exactly specific," Talia said skeptically. "She could decide to leave after she kills us all." Inside, however, the tactician in her was calculating odds. Close to twenty Chasind warriors, all of them intimately familiar with the Korcari Wilds, combined with her Grey Warden sense of darkspawn to keep them clear of that threat. _Could we do it?_ "It's too much of a risk," she concluded, shaking her head again. "Not to mention the fact that Fergus will likely kill both of us if we survive," she added to Temulun, "and I thought that you had sworn to help him take down Howe?" So had she, for that matter.

"My duty to my clan must come first," the warrior replied with a pragmatic shrug. "Our brother knows this. He is to become the leader of the northerners, and that is good, but once the darkspawn are gone, we must return to our lands." He gestured around at his companions. "The Otter Clan is small, and we have lost many, but to kill the _Mongkenai_ will bring us much honor among the other clans. They will give us their daughters as wives, and we will have our choice of hunting grounds."

Talia looked from one to another of the warriors, their lean faces and battle scars speaking eloquently of their daily struggle to survive. Even in the safety of Redcliffe, they eschewed the comfort of the castle itself, keeping themselves in an enclave of tents set up in the fields just outside of town. Despite Eamon's open acceptance, and their assistance in patrolling the lands, most of the people of the town viewed them with disdain, suspicion or outright fear.

"And if I go back?" she asked. She hadn't quite realized it, but she had accepted the inevitability of her death, even if she managed to kill Flemeth, as well. With the possibility of success put before her, the realization that Leliana would have to wait, unknowing of her fate, for the time that it took her to return to Redcliffe loomed larger, and she would have to face the bard then...and Alistair, and Wynne, and Fergus. Then, too, was the possibility of having to return and tell her brother that she had led some of his clan - for surely some must fall in the fight - to their deaths. Survival suddenly seemed even more daunting than death.

"Then we will go on," Temulun answered, his resolve mirrored in the faces of his clansmen, "and return when we are done. The spirits have said that now is the time to act, but -" He hesitated, visibly reluctant to continue, and looked to Chagatai.

The young shaman looked discomfited, but picked up where his leader had left of. "It is you that the spirits have seen fighting the _Mongkenai_ ," he said, echoed by a murmur of discontent from the others that was silenced by a fierce glare from Temulun. "If you do not fight...I do not know if the vision will hold true." No wonder they were grumbling. That a woman could be a warrior had been cause enough for disapproval from some, but evidently, custom would normally have dictated that Fergus' ties to the Otter Clan would have been cemented by marrying his sister to one of the eligible warriors. Few of said warriors had been pleased to discover that Talia's heart had been pledged to a woman, but Fergus supported Talia, and Temulun supported Fergus. Could she let them fight a battle that was also hers, willing or not?

_I promised._

_Which promise?_

"All right, then," she said slowly, dropping her hand to Brego's burly head. "Let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with Flemeth was initially only supposed to encompass a chapter or two: a quick tip of the hat to game canon. I quickly realized, however, that what is essentially a quick little side jaunt in the game, with no real effects beyond a big boost in Morrigan's approval (and since she disapproved of pretty much everything else that my little do-gooder butt did, I needed it) was going to have major implications in the story.
> 
> The premise itself in the game is nuts if you think about it: grab three of your trusted companions (four if you have the Extra Dog Slot mod...which I do) and trot off to try to kill a centuries-old abomination of incalculable power. DA2 finally provides the explanation of how it could even be possible: she lets you do it, because it suits her plans. It does not, however, explain how anyone in DAO would think it was a good idea to try.
> 
> Which left me in a bit of a bind, plot-wise, because regardless of how much importance Talia places on keeping her word, she is neither stupid nor suicidal. She wouldn't risk any of her companions' lives; I knew that when she first agreed to do it. And yes, she's still got enough residual impulsiveness remaining that she might actually start to go it alone...but she's experienced enough that reality would set in before she'd gotten far.
> 
> Enter the Chasind, who actually have a good reason both for wanting Flemeth dead and to be the ones to accomplish it, and have the manpower to make the notion at least plausible.
> 
> Not to say everything's going to be smooth sailing. There will be some significant reverberations, not simply between Talia and Leliana, but within the group as a whole, and it was the emotional fallout that wound up extending this episode into the several chapters that it stretched into. I do apologize for the incoming angst, and actually feel a bit bad at essentially railroading Talia into this, but I hope you'll agree with me at the end of of it that I actually managed to inject a bit more plausibility into this part of the story.


	52. Those Left Behind

Whoever had first come up with the saying about virtue being its own reward was, Zevran was quite certain, _not_ an Antivan. They had been guests at Redcliffe for over a month now, and while the food was good, the wine exceptional and the beds soft, it was - not to put it too indelicately - boring. Oh, there had been excitement aplenty once his background became known, with Eamon and Teagan questioning him avidly on every nuance of the conversation that had taken place between himself and Rendon Howe at the time that his services had been retained. Their satisfaction at learning that Loghain himself had also been present as the assassination of the Grey Wardens had been ordered bordered on glee, but once he had offered everything that they wished to hear, he was dismissed to return to that shadowy existence that the vast majority of the Fereldan nobility conferred upon elven-kind. In this, they were no different from Loghain and Howe, though he opted not to remark upon that particular observation.

Talia had seen it, he knew. She had observed his interviews closely, not hesitating to remind Arl and Bann that Zevran was an ally, not servant or slave, and apologized to him afterward. "I wish I could say that it's not the norm, but -" she'd shrugged unhappily, her dark eyes still glinting with irritation.

"I am difficult to offend, my friend," he had assured her, deciding not to mention that Isolde had drafted him into doing the dinner dishes the night before, since any mention of the incident would also likely involve mention of the lovely cook's assistant who had been the reason he'd been in the kitchen in the first place, and her gratitude for his assistance had been worth the dishpan hands.

All things considered, he was just as happy to be left out of the extensive planning sessions, as the looks on the faces of Talia, Alistair and Fergus suggested that they were every bit as boring as he recalled. And since the two Wardens spoke with their companions after the meetings, anyway, it was not as though he was missing out on any vital information.

Still, it did leave him with a fair amount of time on his hands, and mischief was not really an option. Making an escape through ass deep snow held absolutely no interest for him, and the mud that the recent melting had produced seemed only slightly less deep. Fortunately, Redcliffe - castle and village - had no shortage of lovely ladies who were awestruck at the tales of his heroism and more than willing to provide a few hours' company. In addition to the aforementioned cook's assistant, there was the lovely Valena, pretty Kaitlin, and of course, Bella.

Or perhaps not Bella, after all. Alistair did not seem like the type who would enjoy sharing, and whatever Morrigan was up to, she likely would not react well, were he to interfere.

It did provide an intriguing puzzle to keep his mind occupied, however. The Warden had been giving the waitress turned tavern owner shy looks since their arrival, but showed no signs of acting on his interest...or hers, for that matter. Zevran had observed the witch watching him, her expression unreadable, and a few days later, he had entered the tavern to find her deep in conversation with Bella.

The look that she had shot him had spoken as loudly as any words just what his fate would be, were he to speak of what he had seen, and not being actively suicidal, he had remained silent.

He had, however, kept his eyes open, watching as Bella's formerly casual flirtations with Alistair became far more purposeful and focused, an assault that the inexperienced young man stood no chance of withstanding. Not that he hadn't tried to remain the proper gentleman, much to Zevran's bemusement and Morrigan's barely concealed irritation, and perhaps if they had been able to escape to the open road once again, his resolve might have held - though the elf was at a loss to explain why he resisted so mightily in the first place.

There being no saving departure, however, and Bella being the highly determined and talented woman that she was, three nights ago, Alistair's last defenses had been overcome. He had returned to the castle from the tavern well after daybreak the next morning, looking as though he could not decide whether to hide in a closet or crow from the rooftop. Talia and Leliana had teased him good-naturedly, Wynne had simply smiled and shaken her head in amused tolerance, Oghren had been quite vocal in his demand for details, and seemed to be laboring under the delusion that it had been his own crudely offered advice that had brought it all about. Arl Eamon had made no attempt to disguise his disapproval, but a single glance from Talia had been enough to quell any vocalization of his objections; she was definitely learning to project a convincing air of authority.

Morrigan...had done nothing, said nothing, only watched briefly, her golden eyes inscrutable, before leaving the room. An intriguing puzzle, this. Was it her odd way of repaying Alistair for his part in saving her life in the Brecilian Forest? Or was there a more sinister motivation, possibly a plan to recruit Bella to seduce him and break his heart? Neither possibility made much sense, but the latter option seemed almost suicidal, should it be discovered, and besides that, while the witch could be sharp tongued to a fault, Zevran had never witnessed her being needlessly cruel. Nonetheless, he fully intended to maintain his observations over the next few days, and if anything seemed amiss, he would tell Talia what he knew...and let her break the news to her fellow Warden. Safer that way.

"Good afternoon, Zevran."

"Good afternoon, Gan'Chinua," the elf replied as Fergus Cousland descended the stairs. When not in their councils, the Cousland heir maintained his Chasind persona, seeming completely at ease wearing leggings and loincloth, facepaint and decorated braids, and Zevran had to admit, the look suited him...well enough, in fact, that the Antivan wouldn't have minded taking a walk on the Wilder side, though Fergus had politely made it plain that his own interests did not lie in that direction. Ah, well.

It had been decided that the deception would be continued until the Landsmeet, and Loghain and Howe allowed to assume that Alistair would be presented as the candidate for the throne. The plan was suitably devious, and would likely provide a few critical moments when their adversaries were off balance following the revelation of the truth. Such moments were often where the balance between victory and defeat could be tipped.

"The roads should be clear in another week," Zevran observed as he fell into step beside the human. Like his sister, Fergus was refreshingly free of pretension, and had accepted all of the Wardens' companions as peers, as well as allies.

"Aye." Even beneath the paint, the keen anticipation in the young noble's expression was evident. He could be patient, but he shared Talia's lack of fondness for the necessity.

"How do you think that your Chasind brethren will take to a city the size of Denerim?" He had spent little time with the Otter Clan, after discovering that simply gazing for too long at one of their women was cause for offense. A shame, really, but there were other places where his appreciation of the female form was welcomed, so he saw no need to brood.

"I'm more worried about how Denerim will take to them," Fergus admitted, frowning slightly. "Most Fereldans think of the clans as ravening savages." He snorted softly. "That used to include me, in fact. They're nothing like that, and for the most part, they've shown better manners than the people they've met. I don't expect that many besides Temulun will accompany us into the city itself, though. Redcliffe has been difficult enough for them to get used to; the people, the buildings...they're not accustomed to being so hemmed in, and I think it's getting to them. The warriors all took off on a hunting trip this morning."

"Is that unusual?" Zevran prompted him after a moment; though the man had tried to speak lightly, there was an odd undercurrent in his voice. If the sparsely populated farmland around Redcliffe made the Chasind feel hemmed in, it was likely for the best that few of them travel to Denerim.

Fergus shrugged. "I would have expected them to let me know, to find out if I wanted to come along, if nothing else, but I've been so busy lately." He sighed regretfully.

"That is not likely to improve," Zevran observed.

"I know," Fergus sighed again, "and I'll miss it. Being Gan'Chinua is much easier than being Fergus Cousland. More fun, too," he added with a wry smile.

And he meant it. Though he slept in the rooms that Eamon had provided for him, Fergus spent a part of each day, no matter how small, among the Otter Clan in their camp. He had accepted the role that his sister had given him, not for power or greed, nor even simply for revenge, but because he considered it his duty. In that, he was again very much like Talia, and both of them odd company for an assassin, odder still when he realized that he actually liked them both. Zevran hoped that honor wasn't overly contagious. It would not suit him half so well as it did the siblings -

His head turned sharply, hand dropping to the dagger at his hip at the sudden cacophony of shouts that rose up from the direction of the great hall. He exchanged a glance with Fergus, and they both moved hastily in toward the commotion.

"What have you done?" Leliana was being restrained - barely- by both Alistair and Oghren, her face twisted in fury, blue eyes fixed on Morrigan. That the dwarf did not even seem to be contemplating trying to take advantage of the situation to get in a quick grope was not a good sign, nor was Wynne's expression. Zevran had never seen the mage look truly angry before, but if looks could have killed, the furious glare that she was directing at the witch would have dropped her on the spot. For her part, Morrigan did not seem particularly cowed by either bard or mage, but she did look paler than usual, and more than a little shaken. Glancing around, Zevran felt the first real stirrings of disquiet; Talia was nowhere in evidence, though everyone else in the castle seemed to be arriving from one direction or another.

"What have you done, you bitch?" Leliana screamed again. "I will kill you!"

"What is going on?" Eamon bellowed from the doorway as Leliana's knee caught Oghren in a rather tender spot. The dwarf folded over, adding a string of colorful obscenities to the din, and Fergus quickly stepped in to fill the gap. "Alistair?"

"Little busy right now, sir," the Warden grunted through clenched teeth, struggling to keep hold of the armful of furious redhead while directing a deadly glare of his own at Morrigan.

"Talia has returned to the Korcari Wilds to attempt to kill Flemeth," Wynne spoke up, her voice steely.

"Alone?" The astonished query slipped out before Zevran could help himself. Another glance around the hall confirmed it. Sten stood in the doorway, observing the goings on with a scowl, and he had seen Shayle in the courtyard only a few minutes earlier. With the exception of their leader - and Brego, he realized - all were present and accounted for.

"Flemeth?" Fergus spoke up at the same time, turning his head to stare at Wynne, nearly losing his hold on Leliana in the process. "That's impossible! Flemeth is -"

"Mortal," Morrigan cut him off with a disdainful look, "and well able to be killed, despite the superstitious tales of the Chasind."

"You sound as though you are trying to convince yourself, my dear witch," Zevran observed, giving her a thin smile as he tried to sort out his own emotions at this unexpected turn of events. There was a sneaking admiration for Talia; it was rare for anyone to surprise him, but he had not anticipated this in the least. There was no denying, however, that her apparent course of action was reckless, at best. At worst -

"You tricked her!" Leliana had ceased her struggles for the moment, but her eyes held no less loathing for the witch. "A trick or a spell. She would never have gone alone!"

"I did nothing!" Morrigan shot back, golden eyes flashing. "I asked her, she agreed. The choice was hers, and freely made!" Her eyes dropped, her defiance fading somewhat as she muttered, "I did not think that she would go alone. I never thought she would be so foolish."

"And what, exactly, did you think that she would do?" Zevran had never heard Wynne sound so scathing. "Risk the life of another to fulfill your errand?"

"She seemed to have no compunction about placing all of our lives at risk to eliminate a threat to one of us a few weeks ago," Morrigan countered, her haughty gaze resting meaningfully on Leliana, whose eyes dropped, cheeks flushing a dull red. "And at least I did not bed her to twist her to my will."

A cheap shot, but devastatingly effective. The color drained from the bard's cheeks, but it was Alistair who took a step toward the witch, his expression one of infuriated disgust. "You utter bitch!" he snarled. "Of course _you_ would think like that, not having the first idea what actually giving a damn about anyone but yourself is like! Marjolaine was trying to kill Leliana!"

"Actually, she sought to use the Chantry wench to lure the last Grey Wardens in Ferelden into a trap, as I recall," Morrigan corrected him with a contemptuous curl of her lips, "though I am not surprised that your sheep's brain has already lost track of that simple fact. Even if what you said was true, however, I assure you that Flemeth intends to destroy me no less completely."

"Chances are, you deserve it!" Alistair shouted, and perhaps only Zevran caught the subtle shifting behind the witch's defiant mask, though it was there and gone so swiftly that he could not identify it.

"Enough." The anger had faded from Wynne's face, replaced by a weariness that made her look every bit as old as she claimed to be. "This accomplishes nothing. If Talia has truly gone alone to face Flemeth, then we must-"

"She's not alone." The words came from Fergus, and when the elf - along with everyone else in the room turned to him, his expression seemed to waver between relief and anger.

* * *

"I need to know, Bayatei. Please." Speaking in the Chasind tongue, Fergus strove to keep his tone calm, level, in keeping with his promise that he was not angry with her. Because he really wasn't. That he was considering throttling both Temulun and Talia was something that he could not allow to influence his dealings with this young woman...his sister by the bond that he shared with Temulun.

It was the only explanation that made sense. Game in this part of the country was all but nonexistent this close to the end of winter, certainly not present in sufficient numbers to warrant a large hunting party, and for the shaman to accompany the hunters was highly unusual. Talia must have recruited them into her insane plan, and it would not have been difficult. The Witch of the Wilds had been a source of awed fear to the Chasind clans for centuries, stealing away the strongest of their warriors and the loveliest of their young women. The clan that could boast of killing her would gain a tremendous amount of prestige, once the clans returned to the Wilds.

He wasn't sure who he was angrier with: Talia for putting the clan at a risk that she was unwilling to ask her other companions to assume, or Temulun, for taking advantage of his sister's folly to attempt what had only been whispered at among the Chasind.

"They have gone to kill the _Mongkenai_ ," Bayatei confessed softly, her expression no less distressed than Fergus felt. "The spirits spoke to Chagatai; they told him of our sister's task, and it was our brother's thought that the clan would gain much honor, did they help slay her."

"It was not much of a thought," Aigiarn, Temulun's wife observed tartly, dark eyes glinting with an irritation that did not quite conceal the worry beneath. Her belly had just begun to swell with their first child.

"He seeks to ensure the clan's future," Fergus replied, reflexively rising to his brother's defense. "He would have his son grow up without fear of the _Mongkenai_."

"I do not know if that is possible," Aigiarn replied. "It may be instead that his son grows up without a father."

"It may be," Fergus admitted heavily. If such a thing did come to pass, it would fall to Fergus to provide for the women and children until the boys were of age. Normally, the survivors of a decimated clan were taken in as slaves or brides by other clans, but he owed them too much to allow that to come to pass. "He is a great warrior, as is Talia. As are the rest." That Chagatai had a vision also encouraged him, though possibly more than it should. The young shaman had nowhere near the skill of his late master, but Fergus' time among the Chasind had given ample evidence that their magic was real, and could be quite puissant. And Temulun was not a reckless man; vision or no, he would not take such a risk without believing there to be better than even odds for success.

"Women do not fight," Aigiarn sniffed. She and the other women had been quite scandalized by his warrior sister, and she was not yet ready to surrender the argument, since as Temulun's wife, she technically would have outranked Talia and been able to order her around as she did Bayatei. Fergus hadn't even bothered mentioning that to Talia.

"Fereldan women do," Fergus replied simply, not quite able to feel the indulgent pride that he'd always before felt when making such a statement. Turning to the trio who had accompanied him, none of whom understood the Chasind tongue, he gave a grave nod, watching Leliana sag against Alistair, while Zevran simply looked thoughtful.

Eamon had been in the act of ordering Temulun's wife and sister brought to Redcliffe Castle when Fergus had stopped him, possibly a bit more bluntly than he should have. The Arl quite plainly considered the Chasind savages, albeit tame and useful savages, not unlike pets or livestock. That the clans were not subject to the rule of any Bann or Arl, Teyrn or King had never crossed his mind, much less that compelling their women to attend him would be considered a grievous insult by the men of the Otter Clan. In the end, Fergus had come to the Chasind encampment, letting only Alistair, Leliana and Zevran accompany him. He approached them now, after offering a courteous thanks to Bayatei and Aigiarn, and repeated what Bayatei had told him.

"It doesn't sound as though she recruited them," he reported, obscurely pleased by that fact, even though it meant that she had most likely intended to make the attempt with no help besides Brego. "But they've chosen to involve themselves, and that can only help her."

"As will we." He'd expected Leliana's response from the willful set of her jaw. Alistair exchanged a glance with Zevran, neither of them looking particularly eager to speak up. The bard looked from one to the other, blue eyes flashing. "You cannot be seriously suggesting -"

"We cannot compound Talia's foolhardiness by adding ourselves to it, Leli," Fergus told her as gently as he could, in spite of the instinct screaming at him to do exactly that.

"My name is _Leliana_ ," the redhead shot back angrily, "and we _can_ go after her and convince her to abandon this insanity! We must!"

"We'll never catch them in time," he replied somberly. "The Chasind can move overland faster than any infantry I've ever seen, and they'll be covering their tracks, as well."

"So, you're just giving up?" Her scathing glare swept all three of them. Alistair looked miserable and dropped his eyes, but Zevran answered her.

"Talia has made her choice, Leliana." The emphasis on her full name was faint but unmistakable. "I, for one, believe it to be more than a whim, but those that she left behind, she did for good reason. Alistair will be the sole Grey Warden left, should she -"

"Don't say that!" Leliana shouted at him, hands curled into fists at her sides. "I _will_ go after her, and none of you will stop me!"

"And die with her?" the elf asked calmly. When she only stared back at him with tear-filled eyes, he continued. "Her wish was quite plainly that you remain with Alistair, to aid him against the archdemon, as was her wish for the rest of us. You have also said that the Maker wishes you to assist against the Blight; is that still what you believe?"

Fergus thought for a moment that she was going to attack Zevran. Her face reddened, then grew pale. "Damn you," she whispered. "And damn her. How could she-" She broke off, tears running down her cheeks, but when she spoke again, there was only emptiness in her eyes, her voice. "I will stay," she informed them hoarsely, "but if Talia dies, I _will_ kill that bitch, and I would suggest that no one come between us."

"She'll come back, Leli." Alistair was evidently permitted the use of the diminutive, likely because he looked only slightly less shaken and betrayed than the Orlesian. "With the Chasind -"

She held up a forestalling hand. "Don't," she whispered, shaking her head. "I can barely dare to let myself hope. I should have known -" Her voice broke off again as she turned and ran back toward the castle.

Alistair looked as though he was about to cry. Not that Fergus faulted him; howling like a dog and drumming his heels on the ground was an incredibly tempting thought at the moment. "I'll...go with her," the younger man mumbled awkwardly. "She probably shouldn't be alone right now, just in case she – Morrigan would likely kill her."

"Unless Wynne decides to assist," Zevran offered, the minute shrug of his shoulders in response to the Warden's glare indicating that for once, he was not being facetious. Alistair nodded unhappily, then turned to follow Leliana, the picture of slump-shouldered dejection.

Fergus watched him go, the sorrow and fear weighting down his chest joined by a new worry. Despite the eclectic blend of personalities, Talia and her companions had displayed an outward unity of purpose that had undoubtedly been one of the strengths that had cemented the alliances promised by the Grey Wardens' treaties. Now, with the Landsmeet called, the fellowship seemed on the verge of tearing itself asunder, and even if Talia returned, Fergus wondered if the damage might be too great to repair in time.

_Little sister, I hope you know what you are doing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I turn to Zev for that combination of humor and insight that let me look at a very intense situation through more detached eyes. He is quite possibly the only one who would have thought of the point that ultimately kept Leliana in Highever – and quite certainly the only one brutally practical enough to use it.
> 
> The chemistry between Zev and Fergus surprised me, but I decided to go with it. While Fergus is straight, he's not as easily shocked as Alistair; I can definitely see a potential bromance building there.
> 
> A bit more of a glance into Chasind society (I'm pulling it out of my left ear as I go, btw), this time a look at the female side of things. Anyone want to take a guess what's gonna happen when Temulun ducks back into his tent? He ain't getting' a hug first.
> 
> And no, it's not going to be as easy as 'kiss and make up' for Talia & Leliana, either.


	53. Bathtimes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally part of 'Stolen Moments', but I decided to move it here. The first part occurs in Morrigan's childhood; the second after chapter 40, and the third takes place shortly after the end of the last chapter.

"Hurry up, child."

"Yes, Mother," Morrigan replied. Flemeth's voice held no impatience, but the girl knew that there would be no further reminders or admonitions if she dawdled. Merely punishment. She crouched in the tub: oiled hides stretched over a wooden frame, holding a scant few inches of water, set before the fire to warm briefly before it was used.

'Warm' was a relative term; the water was warmer than the winter-chilled pools that dotted the Wilds outside the tiny hut that she shared with her mother, but not by much, she was certain. She made no protest, however; the one time that she had remarked on how cold the water was, she had found herself abruptly sitting in water crusted with a thin layer of ice that she had to break up to finish her bath. That, Flemeth had told her, was what cold truly was.

She washed quickly, using a misshapen lump of homemade soap that smelled foul and a scrap of rough burlap, scrubbing until her skin was reddened. Teeth chattering, she ducked her head, scooping water in her hands to wet her hair and lathered the soap through it, then rinsed hair and skin. If the job was done to Flemeth's satisfaction, she would not have to repeat the activity for a day or two; if not, she would stay in the water until her mother deemed her clean enough.

Brushing wet hair away from her eyes, she cast a wary look at Flemeth, waiting for the curt nod of approval before climbing out of the tub and taking up the thin towel. She rubbed it hurriedly over her body and pulled on the oversized tunic that served as her nightshirt, trying not to think of how long it would be until spring melted the ice outside and warmed the water in the pools enough that she could bathe in them and lay in the sun to dry.

She averted her eyes as her mother stepped up to the tub and hung her robes beside the fireplace. She crawled into her bed, hearing the familiar cadences of magic rising and falling in a murmur as Flemeth cleared the water and warmed it, the soft splash as she settled in the tub. That it might be unfair had not occurred to Morrigan; it was simply the way things were. Her mother's voice floated to her, calm and sure, reminding her, as she did at every bath.

"No coddling, daughter. You shall have a warm bath when you are able to heat it yourself."

* * *

Morrigan stalked into her room, wishing that the damnably heavy doors of Orzammar were more slammable. Bad enough that the entire city was a mass of stone, hemming her in from all sides. Bad enough that she had dwarves leering drunkenly at her from beneath bristling brows and bushy beards. No, now she had to be subjected to the condescension of that shriveled old biddy.

The nerve of her, suggesting that Morrigan knew nothing about bathing! As though choosing not to coddle herself with such foolishness made her some kind of savage! She stepped to the side of the sunken stone tub, glaring into it. Even after she had learned how to heat water, defiance had made her refuse, continuing to bathe in tepid water under her mother's amused gaze.

She chewed at her lower lip, wondering which was more insufferable: Flemeth's smug indifference or Wynne's pretense of kindness. And the Chantry wench's fatuous rhapsodizing, as though a simple bath was the height of luxury! Ridiculous, really.

A flash of defiance not unlike that of her childhood made her reach out and open the spigot, sending steaming water cascading into the tub. She tested it with her hand, adjusting until it was almost too hot to bear, then spun away, stripping out of her clothes and draping them over a carved stone chair in the corner. She checked the door, making certain that the lock had engaged, before returning to the half full tub and picking up the first of the polished stone jars that sat on a low shelf beside it. Lifting the lid, she sniffed the contents and made a disgusted face: the sickly sweet perfume was almost overwhelming. Leliana would undoubtedly find such a scent appealing, but Morrigan replaced the lid and set it aside disdainfully. The second was not much better, but the third...the subtle blend of spice and floral essences was rather pleasant, so she tipped the jar, pouring a healthy volume into the water and watching as the salts swirled and dissolved. Instantly, the rising steam was infused with a heady scent that called to mind brightly colored exotic flowers blooming in a dense green jungle, far away from men and their confining walls of stone and wood.

She stepped into the tub, hissing at the heat, but forcing herself to accept it. She settled in, waiting until the water had risen almost to her chin before shutting it off. Tipping her head back against the rim of the tub, she let her eyes slip closed. It really was quite pleasant, she realized: the heat of the water easing the aches of muscles, soothing them to relax, while the scent of the bath salts drew her mind away from this infernal place of looming stone, leering dwarves and meddling crones...

She sat up with a little start, realizing that she had drifted off. The water, while not tepid, had cooled considerably, and her fingertips were quite wrinkled, as they had been when she had been a child and Flemeth had to order her out of the pools where she spent her summer days paddling happily, shifting between fish, duck and otter, as the mood took her.

Taking up the sponge and the soap (which was, she noted approvingly, pleasantly scented as well), she washed herself quickly and rinsed, pulled the plug from the drain and stood, reaching for one of the towels that hung beside the tub. It was thick and soft, drawing the water away from her skin, but she found that the scent of the bath salts still clung to her.

Not a bad thing, she decided as she slipped between the sheets on the bed, her mind already sliding back towards slumber, but she had no intention of mentioning it to either Wynne or Leliana.

* * *

The door to her room was locked, the only light from the dancing flames in the fireplace. The tub had been imported from Orlais: narrow, but deep, designed to encourage luxurious soaks. Isolde's tastes being so typically Orlesian, the selection of bath salts and oils ranged from delicately floral to hideously perfumed, but Morrigan had managed to titrate a scent that was tolerable. The servant who had filled the tub had been sent scurrying with a single glare after she had asked timidly if the lady might not want her to add a few buckets of hot water. Only after she had gone had Morrigan cast the same spell that Flemeth had used so many years ago, watching as steam slowly began to rise from the surface of the water.

Despite the heat, her tightly coiled muscles refused to relax. _He_ had been in the hallway earlier, pounding on the door, bellowing at her through the wood. She had said nothing, remaining in the tub, and eventually he had left. There was nothing to be said, after all. Talia was gone by her own choice. Morrigan had done nothing to force the issue, had in fact said nothing of the matter since their conversation in Denerim, and even if she had, she would never have encouraged the fool to attempt to slay Flemeth with only the aid of a handful of superstitious Wilders who would likely flee at the first use of a flame spell.

Fear clawed at her, almost as unwelcome as the grief, and she clung to her anger as an alternative to either. How could Talia have been so headstrong and foolish? Flemeth would scatter the Chasind, kill the Warden, and then turn her attention to her wayward daughter, alone now as she had never been before; none of the others would lift a finger to aid her when the Witch of the Wilds came to collect her new vessel.

She would likely wait, however, giving Morrigan ample time to stew in the consequences of her failure. With Talia dead, _he_ would never trust her in even the smallest matter, let alone in dealing with the archdemon. He would never agree to the ritual, which meant that even if he did manage to slay the creature, he would die, as well. She could try to tell him this, of course, but even if he did believe her, she thought it likely that he would die before he accepted her aid, and if she told him what the ritual required...

She pressed herself deeper into the tub, muttering the words of the spell again, feeling the water heating around her, cocooning her in warmth: a thing that a more foolish, sentimental mind might imagine to be a comforting embrace, or perhaps the safety of the maternal womb. Morrigan was neither sentimental nor foolish, so she simply continued the spell until the water grew so hot as to be just shy of unbearable, and she could tell herself that the salt that she tasted on her lips was simply sweat.


	54. The Witch of the Wilds

The stew in the pot was bubbling merrily, releasing clouds of fragrant steam when the lid was lifted. Flemeth gave the concoction a few stirs, then lifted the spoon to her lips, tasting the broth with a critical expression. Her nose wrinkled thoughtfully, and she added a pinch of dried thyme leaves and a bit of rosemary. Not much of a stew this late in the winter; she'd used the last of her potatoes and carrots from the root bins, the onions that she had dried in the fall, and a scrawny rabbit that had proven too slow for her winged form, but it wasn't as though anyone would actually be eating this last meal, so it didn't really matter. It was the act of cooking that gave her pleasure: one of the only remnants of her mortal life that had remained with her over the centuries.

She replaced the lid and stood, her head cocked. Not long now. The Warden drew close with her chosen allies, her heart awash with the conflicting imperatives of dread and determination. A willful child, that one; almost as stubborn as Morrigan. It had not been difficult to urge the seeds of duty and obligation into growth, but the choice to come alone had been a surprising one, and could not be permitted. The fight must be won, the dread witch slain, but it must be a believable fight, and a lone fighter, regardless of skill, could not be expected to accomplish the deed, much less live.

One did have a reputation to maintain, after all.

Fate - or chance - had placed not one but two children of destiny in her path, and while each of them had things to accomplish that would resound throughout Thedas, she was quite willing to make use of the serendipity to further her own plans. Devon Hawke was nearly a year gone from these lands, but Flemeth could still feel the faint tug of the shard of herself imbued within the amulet, ready to be released when the time was right. This weaving of circumstance was a more entertaining pastime than cooking, though the potential consequences of a misstep were far more substantial than an unpalatable meal. What would happen if Hawke sought out the Dals earlier than planned, released that fragment of her being before the Warden had freed her from this vessel, she did not honestly know, but that simply added the spice of a challenge to a life that had long ago lost any real hint of daily flavor.

The risk of the unexpected was quickly passing, however. It had taken a bit of doing, some time in the Fade to arrange the 'vision' of the novice Chasind mage, a nudge or two at the pride of the young warrior who led the clan to put them on Talia Cousland's trail. A bit of an irritant after being something just shy of a god to the Wilders for so many generations, that any of them should be able to boast of slaying her, but there was a certain amusing irony to it, as well. Besides, she wasn't about to let her pride get in the way of practicality, something that her daughter had not yet learned.

The foolish girl had been ready to let the matter drop, rather than feel beholden to, dependent upon Talia. And the other Warden! The currents coursing between them almost begged to be manipulated, and Morrigan could have had the boy wrapped around her finger long since had she put her mind to it, making the task later infinitely easier, yet she stubbornly refused to claim that advantage. The lad was handsome enough, pleasing in form, and oh-so suggestible, given the proper enticements.

Perhaps she had not been ready, after all. Flemeth knew well enough that she was not infallible, though it was an admission she would make to none but herself. No help for it; the weaving of circumstance only went so far, and some events could not be altered, their outcomes not fully known. She had foreseen the Blight, so many years ago, but not how - or even if - it would end. Only possibilities, branching paths that split into still more branching paths, and most often, she could not anticipate until just before an event which path would be followed, which necessitated preparing for them all.

Hence, she had taken the unprecedented measure of sending her daughter with the Grey Wardens and away from her influence, in the hopes of killing an archdemon and snaring the soul of an Old God. But she had also taken the time to orchestrate her own murder in a manner that ensured that she would survive with Morrigan none the wiser...for now.

It was time.

She stepped from the hut, feeling the afternoon sun giving its first promise of the warmth that would melt even the snow in these southern wastes, given time. The seasons turned, as they had since she was a girl, mortal and foolish and not so very different from Morrigan. The seasons would go on turning long after even she had turned to dust, but she did not intend for that to happen for many more centuries yet...and it might still come to pass that she discovered the way to turn 'someday' into 'never'.

The breeze brought with it the distinct scent of dog, but it was still several more minutes before the burly head of the mabari pushed through the underbrush, his mistress only a few steps behind. The Warden approached cautiously, her dark eyes fixed on Flemeth's face. Gone was the child hovering on the edge of madness; the crucible had tried her, searing away her innocence and tempering her into a weapon to challenge an Old God made flesh, but impurities remained: sentiment, morality, honor. These could hamper her, cause her to shatter at a critical moment, but they were also vital to the success of Flemeth's own plan, the things that had brought here here, against all logic and with a divided heart.

The dog reached her first, showing neither hostility nor the cautious curiosity that he had displayed during his brief sojourn after Ostagar. His ears were pricked forward, his nostrils flaring, testing her scent as he had those first days, but this time she let him catch a hint of her true essence. His ears flattened against his head, and his hackles rose, but he displayed no other fear or aggression.

"And so you return." From the corner of her eye, she could see the Chasind emerging one by one, forming a loose semicircle around the front of the hut. "Lovely Morrigan has at last found someone willing to dance to her tune." She offered Talia a sly smile. "Such enchanting music she plays. Wouldn't you say?"

Talia did not return the smile. "I know your secret, Flemeth."

Ah, so earnest. Flemeth allowed herself a laugh. "Which one, I wonder? What has Morrigan told you? What little plan has she hatched this time?"

"I'm here to kill you," the Warden replied, her voice calm and level, "before you can kill her."

She gave the girl a knowing smile. "There are many, many reasons to kill Flemeth. More than you will ever know." She turned her head, regarding the remnants of the Otter Clan. "No doubt, they have given you a few of their own, but if I had to guess, I would say that Morrigan has discovered something. Something shocking, that requires her defense, yes?" She did not need the faint flicker of recognition in Talia's eyes to know that she was right. "Ah, but it is an old, old story, and one that Flemeth has heard before...and even told." Giving the Warden no time to ponder the remark, she went on. "Let us skip right to the ending, shall we?" She allowed her eyes to narrow shrewdly. "Do you slay the old wretch, rescuing Morrigan from her clutches and freeing the Wilds from her malevolent dominion, or does the tale take a different turn?"

"Different?" Talia said the word slowly, as though testing its feel on her tongue, her doubts plain. She could not reconcile the danger that Morrigan had undoubtedly described in melodramatic detail (a youthful habit that Flemeth had been unsuccessful in discouraging) with the mysterious mage who had snatched her away from certain death and nursed her back to health. If Flemeth were truly intent upon resistance, that hesitation would have already cost the young Warden her life. "What do you mean?"

"I offer you a choice," Flemeth replied, putting just the right note of forced indifference into her voice. "There is power in choices, as there is in lies. Morrigan wishes me dead?" She gestured to the door of the hut. "My grimoire lies within. Take it to her; tell her I am slain." The grimoire should be proof enough; the girl was still young enough to believe that all power worth having lay in such tomes. That Flemeth might have long since moved beyond the need for such crutches was something she had never let her daughter guess.

Talia shook her head. "I won't lie to her."

"And if I were to swear to go away, leave these lands, and never return to Ferelden?" Not that she had any intent of making such an oath, but the game must be played out properly, the illusion of freewill maintained.

The Chasind leader stepped forward, bristling with a hostility that almost concealed the superstitious fear that rolled off of him – off all of the Wilders – in waves. She had invested much time in cultivating the legend of the Witch of the Wilds. Would her plan be undone by her own thoroughness?

The amusingly ironic possibility was forestalled by his words. "Your words cannot be trusted, _Mongkenai!_ Too long have you stolen our maidens, lured away our warriors. You took my father!"

She cocked her head, regarding him with bemused interest. Young and strong, and most assuredly to her liking. A pity she had so little time. "Temulun, is it not?" she inquired carelessly, amused by the shudder that he could not quite repress when she used his name, and the uneasy murmur that ran through his clan-mates. "You are wrong, Temulun of the Otter Clan. I took your father _and_ your grandfather." Chasind males made energetic - if not particularly skilled or considerate – lovers, but it had mainly been a matter of making use of what was close at hand. All things considered, she'd always preferred Nevarrans. There was a delicious irony in bedding a dragon hunter.

Her taunt had the desired effect. Temulun's face flushed dark beneath his paint, his knuckles white as he clenched his sword. "You will hunt these lands no longer, crone!"

A faint twinge of satisfaction as she saw Talia's hesitancy dissolving in the face of the Chasind determination. It was the 'right' thing to do, after all. It would still be a small matter to stay her hand: a reminder that poor, old Flemeth had saved her life, along with that of her fellow Warden. A bit of tending to the seeds of doubt that she had already sown to make her wonder just how truthful Morrigan had been. Once the Warden's resolve had faltered, reasserting her primacy over the Wilders could be accomplished with a few suitably ostentatious spells.

But the time for choices had come, and her instincts had already selected her path. Even now, Devon Hawke moved in search of the Dalish, and though Flemeth could create shades of herself that were quite convincing, she could not truly exist in two places at once. If that shard of her being was released from the amulet while this body still breathed, it would most likely either be drawn back to her as surely as an iron filing to a lodestone or dissipate into the void, wasting her careful preparation either way. Once her tenancy in this body was ended, however...

"As you will," she said, stepping away from Talia, feeling the Warden's confusion at her demeanor, at the fact that she wielded no weapon. Such an innocent. "It is a dance poor old Flemeth knows well. Let us see if she remembers the steps. Come."

All eyes followed her as she moved to the top of a small rise, drawing her power in as easily as her breath. "She will earn what she takes. I'd have it no other way." She released the power, letting it fill her, blurring what was real with what her mind willed. As her form shifted, grew, she watched the wary apprehension on the faces of her executioners give way to a quickly dawning alarm as she threw back her head and gave voice to a ground-shaking bellow, her wings casting them all in shadow.

If she was going to be killed, even in pretense, she would make certain the fight was a memorable one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a blast writing this chapter, with Kate Mulgrew's voice in my head the whole time. Flemeth is one of those characters that seem to me to be beyond the simple concepts of good and evil. She just is, and she's damn fun when she's driving.
> 
> And yes, she orchestrated the whole thing: nudging at Talia's sense of duty, and then, when the Warden surprised her by deciding to make the attempt alone, drawing in the Chasind with Chagatai's vision. A bit of a deus ex machina, but one that fits with bits and pieces dropped in DAO & DA2.


	55. Return To Redcliffe

One foot in front of the other, mud squelching beneath her boots. She was damp, cold, dirty and more tired than she could ever recall being before. A week's trek into the Korcari Wilds to Flemeth's hut, two days for them to recover enough to travel after killing the witch, and a week's trek back north. Better than two weeks gone, and no idea what might have happened in their absence, had Talia's nerves twisting tighter with every step she took. They had rested for only a few hours the night before, breaking camp well before dawn, all of them eager to return to Redcliffe and the ones they'd left behind.

Most of them, anyway. Talia didn't look back; she didn't need to count the Chasind who accompanied her to know that they numbered three fewer than those who had entered the Wilds. Three dead in the fight against Flemeth. Three out of the nineteen of them who had fought: Targen, a young warrior who had only made his first kill that winter; Gamliuk, a seasoned hunter who left behind a wife and two young sons; and Falthuim, whose wife had been killed by the darkspawn. Three dead...not so very many, when their opponent was considered; it could have been worse...much worse. The Otter Clan bore trophies as proof of their victory: the claws, teeth and hide of the massive dragon, as well as the broken staff of Flemeth, and Talia carried the witch's grimoire in her pack and the weight of the lost in her heart.

They had followed her to their deaths, and that they had been prepared to fight without her, if need be, was no comfort. Her departure had spurred theirs; if she had not gone, there might not have been any vision, no encouragement for them to risk their lives in such a fashion. Their deaths were on her head, and her mind kept gnawing on what might have happened had she taken her companions of the past few months with her instead. Might it have been Alistair who had fallen? Oghren? Wynne? That they had not accompanied her and therefore not died was a relief, which was in turn cause for even greater guilt. She had traded the lives of her brother's friends - her friends now, as well - for those of her other companions, and even now, she could not say with certainty that the sacrifice had been a worthwhile one.

The Chasind seemed to think so; they had placed their dead upon raised platforms made of branches lashed together with rawhide strips, giving them to the spirits that they believed filled the air, but afterward, their subdued demeanor had given way to jubilation. They had killed the _Mongkenai_ , a feat that would elevate their clan above the others, once the Wilders returned to their lands. From that perspective, she supposed that it made sense, but that had not been the reason that she had gone.

Which had been true: Morrigan's tale or Flemeth's sly insinuations? Both? Neither? Talia did not know, and she likely never would. Morrigan had asked her to kill her mother, and she had; she had killed the one who had saved her life, saved Alistair's life, because Morrigan had saved Leliana's life, and because Morrigan was her friend...or was she? The witch had never made any claims of friendship, but had she managed to manipulate Talia nonetheless? Another answer the Warden had to accept that she'd likely never really know.

Ahead, she could see the road that would take them the rest of the way, hopefully out of the damned mud. Spring was further advanced this far north, the snow fully melted and the first hints of real green visible on the ground and the budding branches of the trees. At her side, Brego chuffed softly, his head up and nostrils flaring as he scented the air. A moment later, a piercing cry sounded overhead; looking up, Talia could make out the shape of a hawk circling above them. Her gut tightened: anger and apprehension all but impossible to separate.

She quickened her pace, striding forward until she stepped onto the road, avoiding the wheel ruts in the hardening mud, then stopped, her eyes turned skyward. The hawk descended in a slow spiral, its form blurring a few feet above the ground into a familiar form. An uneasy murmur rose from the Chasind, and they stopped well away from the road, but Morrigan gave no sign that she noticed or cared. Her golden eyes were fixed upon Talia, the expression on her face uncharacteristically hesitant, almost fearful.

"It's done," she said when the witch remained silent. Letting her pack slide from her shoulders, she withdrew the tome and held it out.

Morrigan's eyes widened in surprise. "Mother's grimoire," she murmured, reaching out to take it, fingers curling carefully around the dark leather cover that Talia had decided not to inspect too closely.

"She offered it to us," she told Morrigan, "in return for letting her leave the Wilds unharmed. She knew why we were there." She felt an odd satisfaction at seeing her words pierce the woman's inscrutable mien: the dark circles of her pupils expanded until only a thin rim of amber was visible, her breath quickened and the muscles in her jaw and neck tightened visibly.

"And did you accept her terms?" The query could almost be taken as casual, but for the razor-thin wire of tension that lay beneath.

"No." Part of her was tempted to draw it out, to toy with the witch as she suspected that she had been toyed with, but she knew that she had no talent for it. "She's dead, Morrigan."

The tension left Morrigan like water poured from a skin, the briefest hint of anger glinting in her eyes all but hidden by the relief. "Good. I...thank you."

"Thank _them_ ," Talia replied shortly. "I would never have managed it alone."

"I never intended that you should go alone," Morrigan snapped, but the flare of defensive anger faded quickly. She turned to the Chasind, clearly ill at ease. "I am in your debt," she offered, her voice clear. "If I may repay you in some way, you have only to ask."

A significant concession for Morrigan, but Temulun shook his head, his features set into harsh wariness. "Only that you never return to our Wilds, witch. We killed the _Mongkenai_ not for you, but for our own children, and their children."

Morrigan's face was unreadable; she had grown up in the Korcari Wilds, and Talia knew that she missed them, but she only said, "A small enough price to pay; you will see me in the Wilds no more."

"Do not play your mother's games with words!" Temulun growled. "Either swear that you will not return to the Wilds or do not!"

Amber eyes flashed dangerously. "I will not return," she said in a flat voice, turning back to Talia. "Your own return is well timed. We depart for Denerim in two days."

Two days. They had to think her dead, then. "We?" she studied the witch curiously. "You're coming?" That question seemed easier to ask than the one that she could not seem to force from her throat.

Morrigan bristled visibly. "I am not so great a fool as to ignore a threat that would endanger all of Thedas," she snapped, "though I've little doubt that there are no few who would be happy enough if I vanished. Need I count you among that number?" The words were clipped and acerbic, but beneath the scowl was once again the barest hint of fear and hurt that could not quite be hidden.

"No, Morrigan," Talia said quietly, feeling a weary contrition. "I didn't mean it like that, and I'm sorry. It's just been..." she shook her head slowly, searching for the words. "It's been a long couple of weeks." Apart from worrying about what might be occurring in her absence, missing Leliana was a near-physical ache in her chest, a hollow yearning that had her awake and packing her bedroll well before the Chasind each morning, impatient to be off and moving. "Leliana...is she...

The witch huffed an exasperated sigh. "She has been pining for you in a suitably besotted manner, but apart from that, she is unharmed. I will inform the others that you will be arriving shortly." Without waiting for a reply, she stepped back, her form shimmering briefly before a hawk once again winged skyward.

Talia watched the bird until it soared out of sight to the north, then turned back to Temulun. "Let's go." The remaining miles were covered in swift silence, Talia's anxiety growing as the walls of Redcliffe Castle rose ever higher ahead of them. Facing those she had left was a task she dreaded. Would they understand why she had gone? Would they forgive her? Would Leliana?

The two knights guarding the gate leading into Redcliffe hailed them with surprise. "I'll be damned! You're alive!" Ser Donal exclaimed.

"Most of us," Talia corrected him tersely.

"You might want to pad your britches, lass," Ser Alden, one of the older knights, teased her with a gentle clap on the shoulder. "Your brother is not happy with you."

Morrigan had evidently done as she had said she would; the castle was buzzing with activity. A murmur of unease ran through the Chasind as they approached the tunnel that led inside the towering battlements surrounding the castle; few of them cared for being surrounded by stone walls. Temulun uttered a few words in the Wilder tongue, and the bulk of the group turned to continue on to their encampment outside of the town, leaving only Temulun to accompany Talia the rest of the way.

Fergus was descending the steps of the castle, Alistair close behind, but Talia found her gaze instinctively lifting upward to the tower. A brief flash of the sun on red hair, then nothing. Her heart thudding dully in her chest, Talia dropped her eyes back to the doorway that Leliana would eventually emerge from...if she came.

_Please come...please?_

Then the others reached her, and she was forced to turn her attention to them, feeling an unwelcome shock at how pale and haggard her brother looked. "Fergus, what -" Before she could say more, he had caught her up in a rib-crushing hug that she felt even through her armor.

"We thought you were dead," he whispered roughly, holding tight. "There's been no word, no-" Abruptly, he was holding her at arm's length, glaring at her accusingly and looking so much like their father in his rare moments of censure that Talia was shaken. "What were you thinking?" he demanded angrily. "You could have been killed!"

"I gave my word, Fergus." It was the only thing that Talia could offer in her defense, and Fergus was likely the only one here who would truly understand. Even more than she, he had been drilled from childhood on the sanctity of vows. The word of a Cousland was not to be given lightly, and broken only in the direst circumstance. "I gave my word," she repeated, reaching up to brush the tears from his face, heedless of those that traced down her own cheeks. His answer was another crushing hug.

"Our sister is a mighty warrior, Gan'Chinua," Temulun proclaimed, stepping forward and lifting his hand to display the wicked teeth of the dragon, strung upon braided sinew. "The _Mongkenai_ is no more, and the clans will sing of Vachini and the Otter Clan when they return to the Wilds."

"She-Wolf?" Fergus smiled at the sobriquet as he released her, but his eyes were quizzical, and he had grown a shade paler beneath his face paint. "A fitting name, sister, but I thought that you were going to kill Morrigan's mother?"

"We were," Talia began, shooting an exasperated glance at her Chasind brother. She'd been hoping to simply gloss over this part. "She was a shapeshifter, and she...sort of shifted into a dragon."

"Sort of?" Fergus quirked an eyebrow at her, then shook his head slowly.

"We did kill her, though," she added, hoping that Temulun would not take it upon himself to volunteer the details of the fight until much later...preferably after the Blight was over. Starfang had been the only weapon able to penetrate the tough scales over the upper part of Flemeth's draconic form, so it had fallen to Talia to keep her engaged, drawing her attention and allowing the Chasind to maneuver in reach of the more vulnerable underbelly. Two of the clan who had died had fallen protecting her as she danced in and out of range of the teeth and claws, Chagatai's magic shielding her from the gouts of searing flame.

"That much is obvious," Fergus informed her dryly, then hugged her again. "I ought to kick your ass," he muttered, "but I think there are enough people lined up to do that."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Talia asked, stepping away from him and turning to Alistair. "I'm sorry."

He tried to look angry, but relief won out. "You do realize that this was even crazier than going back to Ostagar?" he asked as he hugged her.

"I know," she sighed, returning the hug, "but I had to do it."

"Because she helped heal Leliana after the fight with the dragon?" he wanted to know, eyes sparking a bit as he stepped back, "because if she used that, I swear, I'll -"

"She didn't," Talia said quickly. It wasn't strictly true, but since she had seen through the attempt at manipulation, it didn't really count, did it? "Her mother -"

"She told us," the other Warden said with a sour expression, "and she looked genuinely regretful when we all thought you were dead. I'm not sure whether to believe her on either count."

"Me neither," Talia admitted, "but..." She trailed off with an unhappy shrug. "I was turning around to come back when Temulun and the others found me. At least they benefited from killing her."

"And how many of them died?" Wynne had drawn closer, and Talia cringed inwardly at the straightforward question, though it was asked with no hint of censure.

"Too many," she replied shortly, glancing over her shoulder at Temulun, who was talking to Fergus and - judging from the baleful look that her brother was shooting her - giving him a detailed description of the fight.

"Temulun seems to think it was worth it," Alistair observed, giving Wynne a placating look.

The mage nodded, suddenly looking all of her years, and Talia felt the knot of guilt in her chest tighten. "Their lives are lived on the edge of death, and the Witch of the Wilds has long been feared by all the clans," Wynne said. "Killing an abomination of such age and power was undeniably a good thing, but could it not have waited until after the archdemon had been dealt with?"

"I might not be alive then, Wynne," Talia replied quietly, "and – Chagatai had a vision that told him that it had to be done now." She broke off, seeing the look on Alistair's face, and it occurred to her for the first time that the vision might have been a roundabout prediction of her death.

Wynne seemed to understand her thoughts; her expression softened, and she stepped forward to give the Warden a hug. "It's done and you're alive," she said, "so I'll save the scolding for another time, but -" she stepped back, her forehead creased in puzzlement as she regarded the trophies that Temulun displayed, "she did not shift back to her own form after death?"

"That's pretty revolting, by the way," Alistair put in with a discreet grimace. "I hope you're not planning on wearing any of her remains?"

"I'm to have one of the teeth on a necklace," Talia told him. "It feels a little weird to me, too, but I won't insult them by refusing. And should she have shifted back?" This last was directed to Wynne.

The mage sighed, shaking her head slowly. "I'm...not sure. Shapeshifting is a rare ability, and one that has not been seen in the Circle for centuries. I would need to do some research into it, but that can wait for now. You have other matters to tend to, I think." The blue eyes lifted to the still-empty balcony of the tower, then back to Talia. "She was up there every day, watching...even when the rest of us began to lose hope," she said softly.

Talia nodded, her chest suddenly tight with remorse and fear, her eyes going again to the door. More than enough time had passed for her to reach it...if she was coming.

"It's been hard on her," Alistair said, following her gaze. "Don't get me wrong, it hasn't been a party for any of us, but more so for her. She's barely eaten or slept, won't say more than a couple of words to anyone. Just...go easy. I know she wants to see you, but -" He shrugged, looking unhappy.

"I know," Talia said softly. She would beg for forgiveness, if she had to, get down on her knees...and if that didn't work... She met Wynne's eyes and nodded wearily. If that didn't work, she would keep going and do her duty, knowing that she had no one but herself to blame. "I should go," she said, steeling herself. "Brego, stay with Alistair. You can say hello to Leli later." The mabari complied with a happy bark, butting into Alistair and sending him staggering.

"Missed you, too," the Warden joked, scrubbing at the burly head affectionately. "Why don't you leave your armor at the smithy?" he added to Talia, nodding toward the scratches and gouges that the battle had left. "The fewer shocks she gets, the smoother things are likely to go."

Talia was loathe to delay any longer, but the suggestion made sense, so she lingered long enough to doff the plate and shield, then hurried inside and sprinted up the stairs to the second floor, begging the Maker that Leliana would be in their room.

She was indeed there, standing beside the window and staring down into the courtyard from behind the heavy velvet drapes. Talia's heart sank when she did not turn at the opening of the door. She took two steps into the room and stopped, her feet feeling as though they were cast in lead.

"I'm...I'm back," she said awkwardly.

"I know." The sweet voice was toneless, flat; it was a moment before Leliana turned to regard her, and when she did, Talia felt her heart break a bit. The blue eyes were dull, ringed with dark circles that spoke of far too little sleep; her hair lay limp and tangled, and the way that her clothes hung on her made it clear that she had lost weight, but her expression was the worst: distant and careful, without a trace of happiness, relief, love.

_No...please, no..._

"I had to go," Talia went on. "I gave my word -" She broke off helplessly; the words that Fergus had understood sounded hollow now. She had given her word to Leliana, too.

_I will never leave you._

"I know," Leliana said again, and now she moved, letting the drape fall and walking around the bed to Talia, her eyes searching, still careful, still empty.

"We killed Flemeth." She was babbling now, fear stealing her breath, seizing her heart in her chest. "When the clans go back to the Wilds, they won't have to be afraid of her, and the Otter Clan will be honored for killing her."

"Yes." One word, and now Leliana stood before her, making no move to reach out, her eyes watching Talia with a detached curiosity that terrified the Warden.

The silence stretched between them one minute, then two. She couldn't take it and started to reach for the bard's hand. "Leli, I'm sor-"

The slap was not hard, but it hurt worse than anything the dragon had done to her, and she jerked back, tears flooding her eyes and a dull despair dragging down her heart. "I thought you were _dead_!" The eyes were detached no longer; they blazed with anger, shone with tears, her voice hoarse with her rage but rising with every word to a ragged shout. "Alistair thought you were dead! Your brother thought you were dead! You risked everything for that – that horrid creature!" Another slap, but Talia made no attempt to dodge it.

"Morrigan is a friend, Leli," she countered, knowing better than to try to use the vision of the Chasind as a defense...not right now. "She's not the nicest person in the world, but she's helped us. She helped save -" She knew that was a mistake even as the words left her mouth.

"Don't!" Leliana screamed at her. "Don't you _dare_ tell me that you did it for me!" She flew at Talia then, fists balled and flailing, lacking the control to do any real damage. Tears were rolling down her face now, the words choked by sobs. "Don't you dare! Don't you dare!"

Talia took a glancing blow on her shoulder, her cheek, her ear, before she reached out and caught her lover's shoulders. "I did it because she is a friend, and because she was afraid." She was crying now, too, barely feeling the fists that continued to beat at her. "But _you_ were all that I thought about from the moment I left until I walked through that door. I stayed alive...I came back...for _you_ , damn it, because I love you!"

"No!" The Orlesian shook her head frantically, trying to pull away, but Talia refused to let go. "No, no, no!"

"I love you!" Talia repeated, pulling the other woman into a desperate embrace. "I love you, I love you, I love you!" she murmured over and over into the tangled hair. Leliana fought, her frantic denials dissolving into a torrent of Orlesian and finally ragged sobs, her arms wrapping suddenly around Talia and holding on for dear life as she cried. Talia held on just as tightly, her tears falling just as freely, torn by guilt, sorrow, fear, unsure what lay behind this storm and terrified that it meant that she had destroyed the thing that she needed most.

The tears tapered off slowly, and when Leliana drew back again, Talia loosened her embrace. "You need a bath," the bard said softly, wrinkling her nose. Her eyes were red and swollen, but Talia still could not interpret the emotion that lay behind them. "Go, get washed up."

"It can wait until morning," Talia began, feeling a sinking feeling at being dismissed, but Leliana shook her head.

"You stink," she said pointedly. "Go. I will be here when you return." She offered a wan smile that never reached her eyes, and her voice sounded...resigned?

Talia gave up in defeat. It had been better than two weeks since her last bath, and she was undoubtedly ripe, but the dismissal tore at her even more as Leliana turned and walked away from her without a kiss, returning to the window.

She left the room, slunk down the stairs to the common bathing room, and locked the door, filling a tub with water and sinking into it miserably, barely feeling the sting of the hot water in the myriad scrapes and cuts she had acquired on the trek. Maker, but she had botched everything, destroyed Leliana's trust in her; the tears fell anew, shuddering sobs making the water lap erratically against the wooden sides of the tub and onto the stone floor. She remained huddled there, aware of nothing but the hollow ache in her chest until the water had grown tepid. She washed halfheartedly, drained the tub, dried and put on one of the robes left hanging on pegs beside the door, glad beyond measure that no one had tried to disturb her.

She could hear voices coming from the great hall, but she had no desire to join them. She crept back up the stairs, fully expecting to find Leliana gone, despite her earlier words. The curtains had been drawn open, the rising moon visible in the window, casting its light on the bed where Leliana lay asleep. Talia approached on cat's paws, slipping out of the robe and beneath the blankets on the opposite side, propping herself up on an elbow and drinking in the sight that she had hungered for these past weeks. It might almost have been the predawn hours of the morning she had left, but for the thinness of her lover's cheeks, the shadows beneath her eyes and the taut lines that did not leave her face even in sleep. She had waited for Talia's return, but if the Warden woke her now, would that empty, careful look still be in her eyes? Would it ever leave again? Despite the yearning to reach out and draw the bard to her, Talia refrained, keeping a bit of space between them and simply watching her sleep until her own weariness drew her into an uneasy slumber.

How long she had slept, she did not know, but the moon had risen further in the sky when she awoke to find Leliana leaning over her, one hand so close to her cheek that she could feel its warmth. The moon's light through the window shone softly on the bard's fair skin, caught fire in her hair and the amber flames of her necklace, and gleamed in the silver sword that dangled above her breasts.

"Are you real?" The blue eyes were empty no longer, burning with fearful intensity and heartbroken hope, and her voice was a disbelieving whisper. "I've dreamed it so many times, and when I wake, you are always gone, but -" Fingers brushed Talia's cheek as gingerly as if touching a soap bubble.

Talia found her voice. "I'm real, Leliana," she whispered, daring to bring her own hand up to press the bard's hand firmly to her cheek.

"Prove it." The words all but lost as soft lips found hers: tentative at first, but then Leliana pressed forward with a sob, fingers curling into the Warden's hair as Talia's arms wrapped around her, everything sliding away but the fever of need. No words; only deep, hungry kisses; urgent caresses; claiming and being claimed as passion flared incandescent, burning away doubt and fear, loneliness and sorrow.

"I missed this," Talia murmured much later, her face pressed into Leliana's hair as the bard's head rested on her shoulder, the rest of them a tangle of arms, legs and sweat-dampened sheets.

"Mmmm...yes," the bard agreed, stretching against the Warden and tilting her head to nuzzle at Talia's collarbone, that simple gesture enough to quicken her pulse again.

"That too," she breathed as a pleasant shiver chased its way down her spine, "but I meant just...this." The circle of her arms tightened, and she pressed a kiss to her lover's temple. "Holding you. Being with you. Feeling your heartbeat. Hearing your voice. Out there...I missed you so much that it hurt sometimes, like I was missing a piece of myself. I could barely think of anything else. All I wanted to do was turn around and come back, but -"

"But your duty lay elsewhere," Leliana finished for her with a soft sigh, her fingers drifting through Talia's hair, the anger that had suffused her earlier seemingly spent. "You are a Grey Warden, my love, but more than that, you are you, and if you do not do what your heart tells you is right, you will be miserable. I do not want that for you, and I never want to be its cause."

"You never could be." Talia pressed Leliana onto her back, framing her face in her hands. "I fight for many reasons, but I live for you. You are why I want to come back from those fights, and you always will be. Leliana, I swear -"

"No." Gentle fingers sealed her lips. "No more oaths, no more promises. I was wrong to ask you before. You should not have to feel that you must choose between me and your duty. Just let me have now, and whatever other time we are given, and I will be happy." Blue eyes watched her tenderly, filled with love and a gentle sorrow that made Talia's heart ache, knowing that she was the cause of both.

"Leli, I -" A kiss stopped her words this time, arms slipping around her neck, drawing her down, and she willingly slipped back into the tender, urgent cadence of their lovemaking, trying to show by her touch what she was not permitted to say.

Later, when Leliana had succumbed to sleep, her arms still wrapped around Talia, the Warden lowered her head so that her lips brushed against her lover's ear as she whispered.

"I swear I will always come back to you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Walking a fine line with this chapter, trying to balance between having Talia forgiven too quickly and drawing out the angst. For most of the group, I decided that having her alive would be a big enough relief that the scolding would be relatively minimal.
> 
> Leliana was a different matter. For her, I realized that it was not so much that Talia broke her promise but realizing that she felt she had to, that her sense of duty will not let her walk away from what she feels is right, and realizing that ultimately that means that Talia could very well die in the fight to kill the archdemon. It's obviously been a possibility all along, but this brings it home in a very bone-deep way that can't be brushed aside.
> 
> Warm and fuzzy make-up lovin' aside, this will not be the end of the effects of Talia's choice in this matter.


	56. Calling A Truce

"I would speak with you."

Even had she not recognized the voice, Talia would have known that it was Morrigan behind her by the icy hardness that settled over Leliana's features. While the rest of the group had accepted Talia's assertion that her choice had been freely made, the bard's anger with the mage, rather than softening with Talia's safe return, had only crystallized into something close to hatred – and Morrigan's harsh disdain had not helped. The rest of the companions had been at pains to keep the two women well apart on the trek from Redcliffe to Denerim. Less than six feet separated them now, and while Leliana had removed her armor after camp had been set up, Talia was acutely aware that her daggers remained on her belt.

She stood, hoping that the fact that she kept herself between them was not too overtly obvious. "All right," she replied tersely. She remained uncertain of Morrigan's motivations and loyalties, but it had been Alistair's terse report of the cutting accusation that she had made to Leliana that had her fighting to restrain her anger against the one who had hurt her bard. Only the knowledge that she was the ultimate cause, both of Leliana's pain and the animosity between the pair, kept it in check.

"Alone," Morrigan clarified pointedly.

Talia managed not to groan, though she should have expected as much. She gave her lover an apologetic glance. "Leli -"

"Oh, don't mind me," the Orlesian cut her off in the overly sweet tone that she had quickly learned was a sign of trouble. "I'll just be out of your way." She rose and stalked to the edge of the fire's light, paused and glanced back. "Do at least leave us a note if she contrives another 'errand' to nearly get you killed on, please?" She whirled and was gone to the accompaniment of Morrigan's measured applause.

"Bravo," the witch droned, amber eyes gleaming with sarcasm as she sauntered toward the fire. "Is she this melodramatic in bed at night?"

"Enough!" Talia snapped irritably. "What did you want to talk about?"

The eyes sparked with anger now, though not strongly enough to completely hide the hurt and uncertainty beneath. "If 'tis such a burden to hear me, perhaps I should not speak at all?"

The Warden fought the urge to roll her eyes, though her anger had cooled at the glimpse of vulnerability beneath the haughty arrogance. "Now who's being melodramatic?" she asked. "After what you said to her, is it any wonder she's mad at you?"

"She is a fool," Morrigan replied sharply, though she did look at least a bit guilty...or perhaps that was Talia's imagination. "You have returned unharmed, yet still she clings to her offense, hoarding it like a dragon with its treasure. Why is it so precious to her, do you suppose?"

"Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?" Talia refused to rise to the bait. She knew – or thought she did, anyway – why Leliana's emotions on the matter remained so strong, but she was not going to discuss it with Morrigan. She had hoped that time and her presence might soothe the pain away, but it was obvious that more direct measures would be required.

"No." Morrigan's lips thinned, and she withdrew something from the pouch at her hip, holding it out. "I have something for you," she announced briskly. "A gift, if you will." Puzzled, Talia held out her hand, looking down at the object that was deposited in her palm. A ring, seemingly made of wood, the polished grains seeming to shift under Talia's gaze in the firelight, the shapes it formed indistinct, yet suggestive: now a wolf; next, a man wielding a sword; then a bird with wings spread in flight; now a human form with arms outstretched, as though casting a spell.

"It's...beautiful, Morrigan," Talia murmured, entranced by the shifting shapes. She lifted her eyes, giving the witch a quizzical glance. "Did you make this?"

Morrigan shook her head, seemingly mollified by the reception of her gift. "Flemeth gave it to me when I was a child, old enough to wander but perhaps not yet experienced enough to find my way back. It allowed her to locate me, and, should you wear it, will allow me to do the same for you." She paused, then sniffed, "Perhaps 'twill give your lover some comfort to know that if you vanish again – and it will _not_ be at my suggestion, I assure you!" she bristled before Talia could speak, "that there will be a means to locate you."

Talia eyed her curiously. She hadn't done this for Leliana's peace of mind. "Thank you, but are you sure that you want me to have this?"

"Who else would I gift it to?" the witch asked, quirking a sardonic eyebrow. "Should I hold it in reserve for some future paramour? Some knight in shining armor who will tame the shrew with love?" Her words dripped scorn, but there was bitter self-mockery in her eyes. "I think that we both know how likely that is."

"Stranger things have happened," Talia observed quietly.

"Your survival to this point, despite your best efforts to the contrary, being a case in point," Morrigan retorted tartly, then looked away, crossing her arms in a defensive posture while staring into the campfire. "Tis a curious thing," she said at last, her expression a play of unreadable emotion. "I do not know how else to describe it."

Talia frowned. "What do you mean?"

The golden eyes turned to regard her. "Do you remember our first meeting in the Wilds?"

Talia nodded. "I remember." She had initially trudged behind Alistair, Jory and Daveth, lost in her grief; only the chance to fight, to kill – or hopefully be killed – had been enough to draw her out of herself. The puzzles that they encountered: the Chasind signs, the bodies of the missionaries and their letters, and finally, the missing Grey Warden treaties, had captured her attention almost in spite of herself. Then had come Morrigan and Flemeth, and the mysteries they had posed had been the real beginning of her climb out of the pit of grieving that had nearly consumed her.

Morrigan watched her for a moment before continuing. "I had been in animal form for some time, watching your progress. I was...intrigued...to see such a formidable woman, so obviously more potent than the men she traveled with – though inexperienced and appallingly reckless, I must add."

"Of course." Talia felt her lips twitch. The day that Morrigan delivered an unqualified compliment to anyone would, she was quite certain, mark the end of Thedas as it was known.

The witch glowered at her, as though reading her thoughts, then went on. "Yet I resented it when Flemeth required me to travel with you. I assumed that, at best, you would drive me from your company as soon as we left the Wilds."

"Why would I have done that?" Talia asked. "We likely never would have made it out of the Wilds without you as our guide." To say nothing of the fact that they would have been dead at Ostagar with the rest of the Wardens had it not been for Flemeth, but she did not utter the words. She had killed Flemeth, for good or for ill, and she would likely be living with the doubt and guilt for the rest of her life, but the final choice had been hers to make. Morrigan had not forced her to act.

Morrigan shook her head with a snort, a faint smile quirking her lips. "No, you would not, but be that as it may, I am aware that I have little talent for forming friendships." Another snort. "To put it lightly. 'Tis something I know nothing of, nor ever thought I needed."

She dropped her arms, pacing away from the fire and back in rare agitation. "Indeed, I found myself – compelled, for lack of a better word, to ensure exactly the opposite: to drive you away, to remind myself that I needed no one. And yet," she paused here, a delicate crease of puzzlement crossing her brow, "when I discovered Flemeth's plans, you did not abandon me. Whatever your reasons, you risked much, fought what must have been a terrible battle, without hope of real reward."

She could have mentioned Leliana's brush with death, the involvement of the Chasind, but when it came down to it, neither of those had been the real reason. "That's what friends do, Morrigan," Talia said simply.

Her words seemed only to deepen the other's uncertainty. "And that is what I do not understand," she said, shaking her head slowly. "Of all the things I could have imagined would have resulted when Flemeth told me to go with you, the very last would have been that I would find in you a friend." She turned away then, her voice growing hesitant as she gave Talia a sidelong glance. "Perhaps even...a sister."

Talia stared at her in astonishment, but before she could reply, Morrigan lifted her chin and faced her, her features suddenly resolved. "I want you to know that while I may not always prove...worthy...of your friendship," she paused, an obscure look of pain and regret flitting unhidden across her face, and her voice, when she continued, had a tremor to it that Talia had never heard, "I will always value it."

"Morrigan, I -" Talia swallowed against the tightness in her throat. "I don't know what to -"

"But enough of this foolishness," the witch announced, the fear and vulnerability vanishing behind the more familiar brusqueness. "There is no need to speak of this again, and I would greatly appreciate if you mentioned it to no one else...particularly the fool and the nosy old biddy. You will accept the ring, yes?" She regarded Talia expectantly, biting lightly on her lip.

"I will," Talia replied, "and thank you." Had she been anyone else, Talia would have offered her a hug, but she strongly suspected that Morrigan had pressed her own boundaries as far tonight as she was willing to allow.

Morrigan nodded, looking relieved. "Good. You have given me a good many gifts; it seemed only...fair...that I should offer one to you in return."

"I will always value it," Talia told her quietly, slipping the ring onto a finger on her right hand. It had seemed to be sized for a child, but she felt a gentle warmth against her skin as the ring fitted itself to her finger as though it had been made for her. Her choice of words was not lost on Morrigan; the golden eyes grew bright in the firelight, and she turned away quickly, leaving without another word. Talia watched her go, wondering and turning the ring on her finger, then went in search of Leliana.

Traveling with the Arl and his forces was a vast change from when it had just been the nine of them. With the knights assuming responsibility for the watch, Talia had not only been able to remove her armor when they made camp at night, she had been able to sleep all night, every night, since they had left Redcliffe, which had gone a long way toward curing the fatigue that persisted from her trek south and back.

But if the arrangement had its advantages, there were disadvantages to go with them. Setting up camp in the evening and breaking down in the morning was a lengthy process compared to the efficient routine they had developed, and the added presence of dozens of men and women was more than an occasional nuisance. By far, the greatest disadvantage, as far as Talia was concerned, was the presence of Arl Eamon and his insistence on being as close to Fergus as possible, constantly reviewing and refining plans for the Landsmeet. On the plus side, Talia was certain that Leliana would be nowhere near the voices that she could hear from the center of the sprawling camp.

She turned away from the firelight, angling out of the camp in the direction that Leliana had taken, her eyes on the ground. The Orlesian had been teaching her tracking techniques, as had Zevran, and it was not hard to pick up the outline of familiar bootprints in ground still soft from the last of the snowmelt. She followed the tracks away from the tents and into the trees, worry nudging at her the further from camp she got. This was not the Brecilian Forest, and with the temporary withdrawal of the darkspawn, it was unlikely that there would be any appreciable threat in the vicinity of a force of this size.

Unlikely was not the same as impossible. She wore no armor, but Starfang was at her her hip, and her hand dropped to the hilt as she moved forward, analyzing the tracks in the light of the moon.

_Evenly spaced, the depth indicating a walking stride...one set of tracks, so no pursuit..._

"You're getting better." The familiar voice came from overhead, and relief washed through her as she looked up to see Leliana sitting on a branch in the tree beside her.

"I've had good teachers," she replied, offering a smile that was not returned and letting her hand fall away from her sword. When no reply was forthcoming, she added, "I was worried about you."

"There's no need to be," Leliana replied quietly. "I am capable of looking out for myself." There was a distance to her voice that made Talia's heart ache; it had come and gone since her return, and she suspected that if she simply waited, it would vanish again this time, but she wanted it gone for good.

"I know that," she said, then, "Why are you sitting in a tree?"

"Because the ground is wet," came the reply, spoken in a tone of one stating the obvious, an edge appearing as she added, "and since I did not know how long my dismissal would last, I thought that I might as well be comfortable."

"I – didn't mean to dismiss you," Talia sighed, knowing better than to protest that she had not dismissed her at all, "but you don't like being around her."

"A feeling that is mutual," Leliana replied tersely. "She gave you a gift, I see. Am I to be permitted to witness the handfasting ceremony?"

"I know you know better than that," Talia reproved her gently. She had given thought to removing the ring before she came out here, because she knew that her bard missed little, but hiding it would only postpone the issue, and likely worsen it. "Will you come down, please, or do I need to come up?"

Silence, and Talia had nearly resigned herself to climbing the tree to continue the conversation when Leliana uncoiled, leaping from her perch with feline grace to land easily beside the warrior, a deft nudge from her hip sending Talia lurching into the tree, the weight of her body pinning the Warden a moment later as hands pulled her down into the bard's kiss.

And it _was_ a bard's kiss, silken and seductive, burning through Talia's first startled defenses like wildfire. She gave in to it, let Leliana press her back against the tree, her arms wrapping around the slim waist, pulling her close, and the Orlesian gave a purr of satisfaction, wriggling even closer, tongue licking into Talia's mouth, stroking and teasing, fingers brushing lightly through her hair, over her skin.

The Warden felt her knees starting to waver, the wanting that was never far urging her to submit, to accept the pleasure that was promised.

But something wasn't right; the shift had been too sudden, the skilled assault almost too perfect. Leliana had never attempted such an overt seduction with Talia – had never needed to, to be honest, and the Orlesian knew it.

"Leli -" she broke the kiss with a gasp, her head spinning, desire and duty clashing behind her eyes. "We need to talk."

The bard shook her head. "Don't want to talk," she breathed, trying to press forward again, but Talia could see her eyes now, the pain in their sapphire depths like a dash of cold water.

"We have to!" Talia insisted, maintaining the distance she'd opened, the push turning into a pull as she felt Leliana trying to break free of her embrace, a desperate anger flashing in her eyes now.

"Let me go!" she cried, but there was no real strength to her struggles, and when Talia held on, gentle but unyielding, she gave up suddenly, melting against her and pressing her face into the Warden's shoulder.

"Leliana, this has to stop," she murmured, holding her as tightly as she dared. "Morrigan is one of us, and we can't function right with you two at each others throats. She didn't make me go after Flemeth; I chose to, because she is my friend. But she had no right to say what she did to you. She was wrong, and she knows it."

"I don't." The words were muffled against Talia's tunic, but the misery in them was unmistakable, confirming Talia's suspicions.

"I do," she replied firmly, stroking the red hair, letting her lips brush over Leliana's temple and cheek. Nothing sensual in the gesture: only contact, comfort. "You were ready to leave to protect the rest of us from Marjolaine, because you knew that we would fight for you. Morrigan didn't know that; she thought she was alone. Her whole life, all that she had was Flemeth, and then she found out even that was a lie, that her mother wanted her dead. Can you imagine how she felt? How afraid she was?"

"I don't want to know how that horrid creature felt," Leliana declared stubbornly, her shoulders set with tension, her face still hidden.

"You already do, I think," Talia guessed. "It's too much like what Marjolaine did to you for you not to have noticed, and you're afraid that makes you like her." Silence, save for the softly hitching breaths of the woman in her arms. "In some ways it does," she went on, tightening her embrace as Leliana tried again to jerk away from her. "Hear me out, love...please?" Talia urged her, sinking to her knees and peering up into her lover's anguished face. "Please?"

A single tear escaped brimming blue eyes and rolled down a pale cheek as Leliana nodded. Talia stretched up to capture it with a gentle kiss, her lips brushing over the bard's before she drew back again. _Let me say this right,_ she prayed.

"Morrigan doesn't know how to care about others," she began, choosing her words carefully. "Flemeth raised her, and Flemeth taught her that she could trust no one but herself. And what she was planning to do...it just proved to Morrigan that she'd been right. Maybe that would have been you, if you had never had anyone but Marjolaine...but you didn't. You had your mother, and Lady Cecilie to teach you, or maybe it was just something that was in you to begin with." She reached up, her hands framing Leliana's face tenderly. "But you _do_ care, and not just about me; it's one of the reasons that I love you. Marjolaine tried to destroy that in you, because she thought it was a weakness, just like Flemeth did, but she was wrong. We killed Marjolaine because we had the others with us, helping us. And they were there because they knew that you would have done the same for them."

Leliana shook her head. "Not all of them," she said softly, but the hurt was fading from her eyes, and she turned her head, pressing a kiss to Talia's palm, before returning her gaze to the Warden's face. "Sten, Shale, Morrigan, Zevran. None of them have any use for such things. They were there because they follow you, my love." There was a gentle pride there, even beneath the pain, that warmed Talia.

"I did nothing for you that I would not do for any of them," she countered calmly, "and they knew it." She could say that without a trace of hesitation or doubt now; she had searched her soul time and again, and the answer had never varied. The Couslands took care of their own, and so did the Grey Wardens. "What I did for Morrigan, I chose to do, because I consider her a friend, and I think -" she hesitated, her gaze shifting briefly to the ring, "I think that maybe she is beginning to believe it now, to see Flemeth's lies for what they were."

"Understanding a lie and breaking free of its hold are two very different things, Talia," Leliana replied, catching the warrior's hand in her own and turning it, examining the ring. "What you say makes sense, but where you are concerned, I have a difficulty in thinking rationally. My instinct tells me that she has not forsaken Flemeth's teachings entirely, and that she has her own reasons for accompanying us." Her features hardened. "I will not let her harm you."

"Nor will I," Talia replied. "My eyes are open, and they will stay open. I will continue to treat her as a friend, but I won't do it blindly. But I don't know what we're walking into in Denerim, and we need to all be able to work together like we did before." She paused, her thumbs tracing over Leliana's cheeks. "Can you do that?"

The bard dropped her eyes. "I don't like feeling like this," she admitted softly. "When she found out that you had gone alone, she truly feared for you. I saw it, but I did not care. I was terrified that I would lose you. I blamed her...I spoke harshly to her, and she responded in kind."

"She knew what would hurt you." Talia felt a spark of anger trying to kindle again as she spoke, quashed it determinedly. She was no less prone to irrational impulse where her lover was concerned, but she could not allow herself to give in to this one. "Another lesson from Flemeth."

Leliana nodded. "She is alone," she said softly, "and she will likely always be so, but it is by her own choice, her own actions. I do pity her for what she endured as a child, being raised by Flemeth, but Flemeth is gone now, and she is a woman grown, responsible for her own decisions. I will work with her as a colleague, but I will watch her, and if I believe that she means you harm, I will kill her if I can." Her eyes lifted to Talia's, fearful but resolute. "I hope that you do not think less of me for this," she whispered, "but it will not change what I must do."

"I think," Talia replied, rising from her knees, "that I am very lucky to have you guarding my back." She drew Leliana to her, and her lover came willingly, wrapping her arms around Talia and snuggling close. Talia feathered soft kisses over her face, felt her head lift and turn, their lips meeting fleetingly, parting ever so slightly, the heat of their breath mingling in the slight space between before it was gone again, the contact still light, tantalizing, until Leliana's arms twined around Talia's neck, drawing her in, and this kiss was everything that the first kiss of this night had not been: uncalculated and ardent and so very, very sweet.

"Come to bed?" she breathed when they drew apart.

Leliana smiled at her, that secret smile that never failed to make her heart race. There was only her bard before her now, her features soft and vulnerable, eyes warm with love and rising desire. "To bed, yes," she agreed, her hands sliding down Talia's arms, their fingers lacing together as she began to lead the Warden back in the direction of camp. "But not to sleep. Not just yet."

* * *

The fires dotted throughout the camp had burned down, one by one, until only the watch fire and this one were left. The patrols had passed by her tent more than once, but while cautious eyes always swept over the fire and the lone figure seated beside it, none of them had approached, offering their company to the Witch of the Wilds.

Which was precisely how Morrigan preferred it. Alone. It was the only path that made sense.

She had begun regretting baring herself so completely to Talia almost before the words had been spoken. Friend. Sister. The words echoed in the silence of her mind, redolent with weakness. It was a simple balancing of the scales, nothing more. Talia had not only killed Flemeth, but had retrieved the grimore that had contained her most powerful spells, including that of the Ritual. She had owed Talia a debt, and the ring had been a way to pay it. The rest...had simply been nonsense, and she was unsure now why she had bothered with it. Talia could not possibly be fool enough to believe her, could she?

No, of course not. She was likely laughing about it even now with her lover, assuming she had managed to grovel enough to gain the Chantry wench's forgiveness for daring to speak to her. Weakness. She had exploited it, convincing the Warden to kill her mother, and now she had in her hands the means to obtain a power that would put her beyond the reach of any.

_And when she discovers what you have known all along?_

She shook her head, dismissing the thought, and the annoying tightness in her throat that it triggered. She had the way to save their lives, and thanks to Talia's infatuation with the Orlesian, she no longer harbored the death wish that had promised to put the entire plan in jeopardy. She would convince her fellow Warden, who still looked at Morrigan like something he had found on the bottom of his boot.

_And if she does not? If neither of them trust you sufficiently?_

Another, harder shake of her head, nails digging into her palms, the pain bracing her. If they did not, one or both would die; it was as simple as that, and the only regret that Morrigan would have is for the lost opportunity at power. That was why she had fed Talia such nonsense about friendship, and she sat up a bit straighter, nodding to herself. Yes, that was it: not weakness at all, but calculation, planning...

_Never lie to yourself, girl._ Flemeth's voice, impatient at her for forgetting such a cardinal rule, ignoring her silent protest that it was not a lie. Not really. Not when there was no way that Talia could possibly harbor friendship for her when she finally revealed her secret; not when there was no way that he -

A twig cracked beneath a foot, the sound too crisp, too close, to be anything but deliberate, and Morrigan lifted her head, using the back of her hand to scrub wetness from her cheek. Just the smoke irritating her eyes, she told herself firmly as the Orlesian emerged from the shadows.

They regarded each other in silence for a long moment as Leliana approached; her steps were all but soundless now, and Morrigan knew that the noise had been both an announcement of her presence and a warning.

_If I had not wished for you to hear me, you would not have._

The message was clear in the cool blue eyes, but she bore no weapons...at least, none that were visible. Her hair hung loose and tousled, which must mean, Morrigan thought disdainfully, that the lovebirds had made up.

"I offer a truce," she said after a long moment.

Morrigan arched an eyebrow. "Are we at war?" she inquired with deliberate carelessness.

"I do not like you," came the flat reply, "nor do you like me, as you have made quite clear. But I love Talia, and if you do consider yourself her friend, then we must put aside this pettiness to help her do what it is she must do, and not distract her with our squabbles." She drew a deep breath. "I was angry with you, for enlisting her to kill your mother, but she made the choice to act on her own. The things I said to you were not kind, and I apologize."

The witch cocked her head, considering, making the redhead wait for her response. "That must have taken no small effort," she remarked at last. "Is this the point at which I am supposed to be overcome with admiration at your selfless gesture and remorse at my own hardheartedness?"

Points to the bard: she showed no sign of anger, but merely shook her head, saying, "I need neither; only the agreement that we act as allies in a common cause. Nothing more...or less." A faint spark of resolve in the blue eyes, the smug certainty that she was doing the right thing, no doubt.

Part of Morrigan wanted to see if she could bait her out of her earnest reason, but she was right in one thing: the time for petty games was past. Continuing to play them for the sake of the game alone risked the far greater prize.

"Then you have it," she replied, and the surprise on the Chantry sheep's face was so blatant, it was almost as amusing as baiting her would have been. "A truce, as you say. And...I apologize for my words to you, as well. You would not have manipulated Talia to your own ends; 'tis obvious that you care deeply for her." That such feelings were cause for greater contempt than the manipulation would ever have been would remain unsaid; the apology would serve her purpose, and it was plain from the look on Leliana's face that she had not been expecting it, which was another small satisfaction.

"I...thank you, Morrigan," she replied, surprise giving way immediately to a suspicion that she concealed almost as quickly beneath a bland expression. Not the utter fool that Morrigan had once taken her for, but a fool, nonetheless, to give herself so completely to another. For a moment, it seemed that she might linger and belabor the matter further, but to Morrigan's great relief, she simply turned and disappeared back the way she had come, making no attempt to conceal her footsteps now.

Morrigan turned back to the fire: the curling flames and the coruscating glow of the coals beneath, consuming the fuel, giving off heat, power. The wood was necessary for the power, but it was merely fuel to be used. She would be kinder in her use of the Wardens: they would live, but she _would_ use them. That was all that tonight had been: another step toward her goal, another strand of her web woven more securely. The power that she would gain would ensure that never again would she have to depend on another. It meant safety, survival. Those things were real, tangible, and all that mattered.

Love and friendship were the illusions of fools.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite my fondness for the bard, Morrigan's confession of friendship is hands-down my favorite piece of dialogue in the game. The animation, the scripting, Claudia Black's voice...it all combines to create a genuinely emotional moment that showcases the complexity of the character. In-game, the gift of the ring was reserved for a male Warden LI, but I decided to use it here as a catalyst for the conversation.
> 
> This was another multi-purpose chapter. In addition to Morrigan's moment of vulnerability, I wanted to explore the continuing fallout of Talia's choice to sneak off to kill Flemeth. In this chapter, it entailed dealing with Leliana's fear that Morrigan's accusation was right: that she had manipulated Talia into killing Marjolaine and was no better than Morrigan. Again, walking a fine line between overdosing on angst and making everything all better with no effort. Overall, I was satisfied with this part of the mending process, but again, we've not seen the last of the consequences.
> 
> Finally, I needed to get Morrigan and Leliana to a truce state. Most of the rest of the group would have accepted Talia's assertion that she chose to go alone and let it go...not that any of them were overly fond of Morrigan, anyway. Alistair is still holding a grudge, but it's expressed more in simple avoidance, I think. The situation between bard and witch was far more volatile, and needed to be defused before I went further.
> 
> This chapter was very dialogue-driven, and those are always interesting for me to write. The conversation between Leliana and Morrigan at the end, and Morrigan's reflections before, during & after, I was particularly pleased with. Neither woman likes the other, but they are both intelligent enough to realize the need to work together toward a common goal, and they have the potential to be a formidable team as allies.


	57. Return To Denerim

Months earlier, they had fled Denerim through a hidden tunnel; they returned now through the front gates, surrounded by the Redcliffe Guard, but Leliana's heart did not stop pounding until the portcullis of Eamon's estate dropped behind them. Too much had happened here, from the near-disastrous encounter with Howe to dealing with Marjolaine. Even if they had not been connected with the latter, Talia's attack on Howe, and their subsequent escape, had been witnessed by most of the Market District. Eamon's assertion that any such claims would be held in abeyance until after the Landsmeet provided only the barest reassurance.

They had found the Arl's estate deserted, the few servants who maintained it in Eamon's absence either taken or fled, and a heavy layer of dust indicating that the vacancy was not a recent development. Isolde had marshaled the staff who had come from Redcliffe with them to see to the cleaning, muttering balefully in Orlesian about Loghain's barbarity.

"What now?" Talia asked as they followed Eamon and Teagan into the great hall of the mansion. Alistair, Fergus and Temulun accompanied them; the rest of the companions were settling into their respective quarters, but Talia had not tried to suggest that Leliana remain in the room that had been given to them, for which the bard was grateful. It was foolish, she knew, but almost two weeks after Talia's return from the Wilds, she still found it difficult to have her lover out of her sight.

The memory of the fear, the grief and the aching loneliness caused by her absence was still too clear. Each time she had fallen asleep during those awful days, she had dreamed of Talia returning, been reunited with her Warden a dozen times or more, only to wake and find herself alone again. She hadn't been able to make herself believe that it was really Talia standing before her, speaking to her, holding her, until she had woken up to find her still there.

Talia had remained close, even more remorseful than she had been after the dragon, apologizing with what seemed like every other breath until Leliana had made her stop. The memory of slapping Talia, striking her, still made Leliana wince; she'd been angry at Talia for leaving and taking such a risk, yes, but most of her fury had been directed at what she believed to be just another dream mocking her. She didn't want their time together marred by the shadows of recrimination and guilt, because she found herself increasingly unable to shake the notion that their time together was limited. Talia scolded her when she voiced such thoughts, but she did not try to deny them. Her fingers laced with Leliana's now as she regarded Eamon expectantly. She had worn her armor into the city, fully expecting trouble, and the absence of it thus far plainly had her wary and on edge.

"We've a week until the Landsmeet," the Arl replied. "A week in which to determine who in the Bannorn currently support us and make certain that the rest are made aware of Loghain's duplicity. We need eyes and ears in the city. Loghain and Howe have been ensconced here for months; the roots of all their schemes must lie here. The sooner we discover them, the more time that we have to make them known."

"And we must make contact with the other nobles," Teagan put in, "test the waters, find out where they stand."

"And how long am I to remain hidden?" Fergus wanted to know, his impatience plain. It was with evident regret that he had put away his Chasind garb, cleaned the paint from his face and trimmed his hair, insisting over Eamon's objection to keeping a single, narrow braid behind one ear into which was woven the carved bone bead that marked him as one of the Otter Clan. Talia sported a similar braid and bead at her left temple, and around her neck, a single dragon's tooth – one of the smaller ones, evidently – hung from a leather thong. It made Leliana's spine shiver to look at it, and Alistair seldom lost the opportunity to point out how 'creepy' it was, but Talia was as determined as her brother to give proper honor to the Chasind who had saved both of their lives. Temulun alone had accompanied them into the city, proudly ignoring the whispers and stares at his 'barbaric' appearance, while Fergus had worn the armor of a Redcliffe knight, keeping the visor on his helm closed while they were in the city.

"It is a delicate balance," Eamon admitted. "On the one hand, if we catch Loghain and Howe off guard, they may be surprised enough to make a mistake, but if we're to gather support, we need someone to rally around. A day or two more, at most, I'd say...just until we get a feel for the situation."

Fergus did not look pleased at this, but nodded his acquiescence after exchanging a brief glance with his sister. "All right," he replied evenly, "but I will not -"

"The Regent and the Teyrn of Highever," one of the liveried servants announced at the door of the hall. Talia's face paled, then suffused with anger; Fergus' expression was no less enraged, and Alistair had the presence of mind to reach out and snap his visor closed before the announced visitors entered the hall.

Loghain Mac Tir led, with a tall woman in armor at his right, but Talia's gaze was locked on the man who strode confidently at the Regent's left, her lips curled in a silent snarl of fury. "Loghain." Eamon stepped adroitly to the fore while Leliana kept her fingers intertwined with Talia's.

"This is an honor, for the Regent to find time to greet us." His voice was level, his expression calm; only his eyes gave any hint of the emotions that had to be storming beneath the surface, sparks of anger flickering in an otherwise cold gaze.

Loghain's grey eyes were no warmer. "How could I not greet a man important enough to drag every noble in Ferelden from their estates when we've a Blight at our throats?"

Eamon did not flinch. "So, you finally admit that it is a Blight? After how many months and how many dead?"

"Dead because you and others like you refused to obey your rightful ruler!" Loghain grated.

"It has been nigh on a year since Ferelden has had a rightful ruler," Eamon countered, and the Regent's face darkened.

"Anora is the rightful Queen of Ferelden!" he thundered. "And I command her armies!"

"If Ostagar is any indication of your abilities in that area, I'd say a change is in order," Alistair spoke up, his jaw tight, regarding Loghain with open hostility.

Loghain's eyes shifted to him, lips curling in contempt. "The royal bastard, I presume? This is who you would place on the throne, Eamon?" Alistair glared at him but said nothing as Loghain's gaze slipped past the visored guard in Redcliffe livery to rest on Temulun. "And the barbarian who leads your armies in a treasonous war?"

The Chasind met his stare impassively, and Leliana wondered if Eamon had planned this particular part of the deception, using Temulun's presence to further mask Fergus' involvement. Loghain shook his head slowly. "It has been rumored that your illness left you feeble, Eamon. I did not give it credence before, but now I must wonder if you are truly competent to advise Ferelden."

The calm mask slipped a bit as the Arl's face hardened. "Illness?" he inquired with an edge to his voice. "Why not call your poison by its true name, Loghain? Your assassins have failed," the Regent's jaw clenched at the unmistakable emphasis on the plural, "and your crimes will be brought into the light for all to see. Not all in the Landsmeet will cast off their loyalties as easily as you and your sycophants."

"Assassins?" Rendon Howe spoke for the first time, a supercilious sneer on his face. "Bold accusations coming from a man who keeps the company of those accused of murdering my guards and attempting to kill me. Count yourself fortunate that all such matters are held until after the Landsmeet, or you would find yourself standing alone."

"You and your guards murdered my family!" Talia snarled, pulling her hand free of Leliana's and taking a step forward. "You slaughtered the people of Highever. I claim blood right!"

"Grey Wardens hold no titles," Loghain reminded her, his face and voice hard. "Your family was found guilty of treason, conspiring with the Orlesians to return Ferelden to their tyranny. Your status as a Warden is all that shields you from sharing in that judgment, but I would suggest that you not strain my forbearance." His face was set in planes of stone, giving Leliana no clues as to whether he actually believed his own words.

"You lie, old man!" If Loghain's expression was stone, Talia's was molten, raw fury rippling over her features. "My father fought beside you against Orlais! He would never have conspired with them! You know that, and -" She broke off suddenly, her eyes widening. "And King Cailan knew it." Her incredulous gaze shifted from Loghain back to Howe. "This coward never would have dared attack Highever if he had thought he'd have to justify himself to the King." Back to Loghain, eyes narrowing as stunned realization gave way to anger once more. "You son of a bitch." Her voice was low, measured, but throbbing with rage. "You _planned_ that retreat before the battle ever started! You killed the King and the Wardens!"

"Talia -" Eamon was moving to interpose himself, sensing that things were close to spinning out of control, when the woman who had accompanied Loghain and Howe spoke up.

"Guard your tongue, girl!" she ordered brusquely. "You would dare accuse the Regent of such treason?" Leliana could not help but notice, however, that her face was pale, her shocked expression at odds with her harsh words.

"Cauthrien, enough," Loghain ordered curtly, but Talia's eyes had already snapped to the woman, truly noticing her, it seemed, for the first time, so intent had her focus been upon Howe.

"You?" she whispered disbelievingly. "I thought you were dead with -" She broke off, the disbelief in her eyes giving way to wounded betrayal, then a searing contempt. "You really are his whore, aren't you?" she spat, gesturing bitterly to Loghain, and the woman jerked as though she had been slapped, the last of the color draining from her cheeks. "You swore an oath to protect the King, and you left him to die! How could you -"

"Enough!" Loghain snapped again, his face as suffused as Cauthrien's was pale. "Eamon, if you cannot control these strays you've collected -"

"We would all have died, had we taken the field that night!" Cauthrien protested, looking near as stricken as Talia had. "The Darkspawn were too many, but the Wardens had convinced the King that they were strong enough to meet them! It was the Grey Wardens who -"

"Is that what _he_ told you?" Talia demanded, shaking free of Leliana's restraining touch and taking a step forward, her right hand dropping to her sword. "Or what you try to tell yourself? Duncan was in favor of waiting for reinforcements -"

"Orlesian reinforcements!" Loghain cut her off, stepping between her and Cauthrien, grey eyes cold no longer, but burning with rage. From the corner of her eye, Leliana saw Fergus tense, saw Temulun place a restraining hand on his arm, his dark gaze fixed on the Regent with a predator's intensity. "He and Cailan were ready to beg for 'assistance' from the tyrants who kept this land under their boots for nearly a century!"

"And from Redcliffe," Talia shot back, "but you knew those forces wouldn't be coming, didn't you?"

Loghain's expression turned positively murderous, and for a long moment, he seemed ready to attack the Warden. The faintest shadow at the edge of a doorway caught Leliana's attention: Zevran, allowing her to see him and the small crossbow in his hands, the bolts it fired undoubtedly tipped with poison, before he faded back out of sight.

Loghain stepped back at last, regarding them all with loathing. "You were born in freedom because of the sacrifices made by those who understood the price of that freedom," he spat. "I'll waste no more time on you. The Landsmeet will separate the true patriots from the charlatans." His eyes fell coldly on Talia, "And if you or your accomplices are found outside this estate before then, I'll have you arrested for your attempt on Teyrn Howe's life and the murder of his guards."

The emphasis on the title was deliberate, and Talia lunged for him as he spun on a heel and stalked away. Leliana grabbed one arm, Alistair caught the other, holding on tighter when Rendon Howe sent her a smirk before turning to follow. Cauthrien was last, her face a play of conflicting emotion, looking as though she wanted to say something to Talia, but then she closed her mouth, her lips a thin line, and fell into step behind Loghain.

"That's it, run!" Talia's furious taunt followed them out the door. "Just like you did at Ostagar!" Cauthrien's step faltered, her shoulders going rigid and her hands curling into fists, but she did not stop or turn around.

"That...could have gone more smoothly," Eamon commented, staring after them with a frown, then turning to Talia, who had stopped struggling as soon as the trio was gone.

"Maybe," Talia replied, her voice calmer than it had been only seconds earlier. Too calm, though Leliana could still feel the tension thrumming through her in the seconds before she and Alistair released their hold on her. "But Loghain admitted in the presence of witnesses that the Wardens were _not_ the reason that final battle was entered."

"You -" Leliana grabbed Talia's arm and spun her around, staring up at her incredulously. "That was all just a performance?"

"Not all of it," the Warden admitted grimly, her face still set in anger and her eyes shadowed.

"A dangerous game, little sister," Fergus told her as he lifted the helmet from his head. "He came close to attacking you."

"It wasn't a game," Talia growled. "The bastard planned the whole damn thing with Howe and laid the blame on the Wardens. I should have put it together before now. Cailan would never have believed Howe's lies about Father; they had to kill him. And that mage was sent to poison you," she added to Eamon, "just after the army arrived at Ostagar, before they'd even met the darkspawn in combat at all, because you would never have accepted Cailan's death without question."

"A highly plausible theory," Eamon agreed, looking grim,"and combined with the letters that you recovered at Ostagar, it will likely sway the opinions of many, though the more evidence we can gather, the better. It certainly seemed to give Ser Cauthrien pause for thought." He hesitated, regarding Talia curiously. "I take it the two of you are acquainted?"

Talia scowled, but Leliana saw the brief flash of hurt and betrayal in her eyes and felt a sudden, irrational stab of jealousy. "We've met," Talia replied at last, her voice flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That really is the only conclusion that I could draw from the timeline in the game. By the time you reach Lothering, only a few days after the last battle at Ostagar, Eamon has been ill long enough for Isolde to have grown desperate and dispatched the knights on their search for the Urn, which would suggest weeks, at the very least, since they seem to have been afield for some time, from the conversation you have with the Redcliffe knight in the Lothering chantry.
> 
> It all dovetails together: the taking of Highever, Eamon's poisoning & the death of Cailan, to remove the King and the two men influential enough to raise questions about how he died. Oddly, it didn't all come together in my head until this chapter, shortly before Talia puts the pieces together.
> 
> It definitely takes my sympathy for Loghain down considerably, because, while I have little doubt that Howe did the majority of the dirty work, Loghain had to have been a knowing conspirator, justifying it with the 'for Ferelden' excuse that's wearing very thin.


	58. Hero Worship

"Mother, _please_!"

"Talia, I will not discuss this any more!" Eleanor Cousland's usually serene voice held a decided edge of exasperation. "You are nearly fifteen, and well of an age to behave as the noblewoman you're being raised to be, particularly during a visit by the King."

"But this is Ser Cauthrien!" Talia protested. "I could learn so much from her!" The woman who had come from nothing to be one of the greatest warriors in Ferelden, second only to Loghain Mac Tir and King Cailan himself, would be accompanying the King and Queen Anora as the captain of Maric's Shield, Cailan's personal guard.

"None of which will help you make a suitable match," her mother retorted. "It's time for you to put away childish things."

"Childish?" Talia glared at her mother. "I can beat any of the boys my age, and best Fergus a good part of the time! How is that childish? You were a shieldmaiden!"

"In the last days of the war, yes," Eleanor countered. "Because I had to be. I set that aside when I married your father. The land is at peace now, and the man that you marry will need a wife who can manage his household, not fight."

"Maybe I'll run off and join the army, then," Talia muttered rebelliously.

Her mother's green eyes narrowed. "Talk like that will get you barred from fighting at all!"

Talia opened her mouth, shut it hurriedly. There was no bluff in her mother's manner; she meant what she said. "Yes, Mother," she said quietly.

Eleanor wasn't done. "You will not don your armor for the duration of the King's visit," she went on. "Your word as a Cousland."

Three days trapped in dresses, watching Fergus and Rory sparring with the members of Maric's Shield...if she was even allowed to do that much. There was no help for it, though, and further protestation would only lead to greater restriction. Her mother knew her too well. "My word as a Cousland," she replied, resigned to her fate.

Her mother's green eyes softened at the dejected slump of her daughter's shoulders. "It's not the end of the world, Talia."

"Not yet, anyway," Talia replied with a shrug. The end would come when she was married off and had to spend her days overseeing servants and managing accounts, her days in armor, sparring on the practice field and feeling alive, fading to memories.

Exasperation returned to Eleanor's face. "Your father and I are not planning on simply auctioning you off to the highest bidder," she said sharply. "You'll have a say in whom you marry, and that won't happen until you are eighteen, anyway. I'm asking you to act like a young lady for three days; is that really such an unreasonable request?"

Talia shuffled her feet uncomfortably. "No," she admitted. It wasn't the request itself, but the knowledge that it would be made again and again as she approached a marriageable age...but that was more than three years off. Forever, practically. She gave her mother an apologetic smile. "Which dress should I wear this afternoon?"

Her mother's answering smile was warm. "The blue silk, I think. And let Regina do something with your hair." Her expression turned rueful as she reached out to touch the dark locks that fell to just below Talia's shoulders, but she said nothing, did not bemoan the loss of the hair that had once been waist-long. That battle had already been fought, a truce reached.

"Yes, Mother." Talia nodded and made her escape, a whistle calling Brego to her as she made her way toward her room. The mabari readily abandoned the sunny spot where he'd been napping to pad along at his mistress' side, his stump of a tail bobbing happily. Not quite three years old, he was almost an adult by mabari standards, and though he still had the playful energy of a puppy, his manners were impeccable. Even her mother had to admit that; there had been no talk of confining him to Talia's room during the King's visit, and she'd given him a thorough bath earlier in the day.

"Talia!" She turned to see Roderick Gilmore running toward her, his face alight; one look at the livery that he wore made the reason plain.

"Father's made you a guard?" Talia didn't have to feign enthusiasm, though she did feel a strong twinge of jealousy that she would not let her friend see. She and Rory were evenly matched on the field, for all that he was a year older. He would be encouraged to continue to develop his fighting skills, eventually becoming a knight of Highever, while Talia -

"Just this morning," he announced proudly, unable to contain the grin that spread across his face. "I'll start on the third watch tonight."

Third watch, which ran from midnight until sunrise, was the traditional starting patrol for the newest guards. "Probably ought to get some rest, then?" Talia suggested.

"And miss the King arriving?" He shook his head. "Not likely. Your father said that I can join the rest of the guard in formation, so I need to finish cleaning my armor!" He started to run off, hesitated and turned back. "What did your mother say about..." He trailed off.

Talia shook her head, trying not to look as bothered as she felt. "Not a chance. I had to promise not to even put on armor while the King is here. My word as a Cousland."

"Ouch." Rory grimaced sympathetically. "Well, try not to worry about it. After he's gone, things will go back to normal, right?"

Talia made herself nod, made herself say, "Right." Normal...until her mother decided that she needed to be a proper young woman and the weapons and armor would be put up for good. She watched him dart off, then made her way up to her rooms to bathe and get dressed. The dress was a simple one; she needed no assistance to put it on, then she went in search of the servant that her mother had suggested for help with her hair. Regina was well aware of Talia's lack of patience for such activities, and quickly settled on drawing the sides back with a mother-of-pearl comb, leaving the back loose.

Brego once more at her side, she descended to the garden, meeting her father on the way up to change his clothes. "You look beautiful, Pup," he told her, brown eyes glowing with an approval that would have been unchanged had she just stepped from the practice ring after a victory. "Tell your mother I'll be down shortly."

"I will," she promised with a smile, her dissatisfaction fading somewhat as she left him.

Her mother was equally approving. "Perfect!" Eleanor proclaimed, beaming with a pride that was rarely seen when her daughter was displaying her skill with a sword. Slipping her arm through Talia's, she started towards the kitchens. "Let's see how Nan is coming with dinner."

Talia nodded, knowing that this was one of the responsibilities that she would be expected to assume when she was in charge of her own household, but determined to accept the next three days with as much grace as she could. If she could please her mother by being ladylike when it was called for, perhaps her tolerance for the fighting would last longer.

There was no shortage of stares from members of the guard that they passed, but any teasing was kept in check by the forbidding look in the Teyrna's green eyes. Not even the bravest of them would risk Eleanor Cousland's wrath. Talia knew she'd be catching it once her mother wasn't within earshot, but she didn't really mind; she'd known most of the men in the guard all her life, and they'd had almost as much a hand in raising her as her parents.

Rory Gilmore hustled past in gleaming armor with a hasty, "Good day, m'ladies," then did an almost comical double take as he pulled to a halt and turned. "Talia?" He took a step toward her, staring. "You look...you look great."

She studied him with narrowed eyes, searching his words for a hint of mockery, finding none. "Thank you," she said at last, just ahead of a subtle nudge from her mother.

Recovering from his surprise, he dipped a passable bow, adding, "And you look lovely, Your Grace."

Eleanor smiled at that. "Thank you, Guardsman Gilmore," she replied, and the youth straightened, his chest puffing out as though she'd addressed him as 'Ser'.

"I should report to duty," he said, giving Talia an apologetic look that she waved off good-naturedly. "Goodbye, m'ladies."

Eleanor watched as he departed. "He's a nice young man," she commented.

"Yes," Talia agreed. Rory didn't treat her like the Teyrn's daughter; he treated her like a friend. She hoped that him being in the guard wouldn't change that.

The Teyrna's eyes shifted to her daughter. "His father's a Bann, you know."

Talia glanced at her mother quizzically, wondering if this were a test of her knowledge. "Bann Gilmore of Hafter's Reach," she replied. "He fought alongside Father and Arl Howe at White River." Rory was the youngest of three sons, and Hafter's Reach was a small bannorn; service to the Teyrn, with the hope of an eventual knighthood, had been the best prospect that the Bann could offer him.

Eleanor nodded, her expression inscrutable. "It seems to me that he would not object to a wife in armor."

Talia blinked, unsure that her mother was actually suggesting - "Rory? He's my best friend!" Almost a brother; wedding Fergus seemed scarcely more outlandish.

Her mother lifted her eyes briefly heavenward. "Successful marriages have been built on considerably less," she replied patiently. "He's well on his way to being a knight of Highever, and there are any number of vacant holdings that your father could gift you with once you're wed. The teyrnir would gain a loyal liege-man, you would have a husband that I hope you could be happy with, and I could keep my daughter close."

Suddenly aware that her mouth was hanging open, Talia closed it. She had always assumed that her marriage would be arranged to an older noble, or the son of one, to strengthen a political alliance. The suggestion that her mother was making made a certain amount of sense, and a cautious hope began to kindle in her chest, only to be doused by a sudden sinking worry. "You haven't mentioned this to Rory, have you?" There had been no hint of it in his demeanor just now, but Maker, he'd never treat her the same if he knew.

A long-suffering sigh from Eleanor. "Talia, neither your father nor I are complete fools. We would both prefer if such a thing were your own choice, and we wanted you to know that we would consider him an acceptable match."

"I – thank you." She knew she should sound more grateful, but her mind was still trying to wrap itself around the notion. _Rory? And me?_ "I'd just...never thought about it," she added lamely.

"I know." The look that her mother gave her was both affectionate and resigned. "Believe me, I know. Let's go see how Nan is getting on."

They found Nan in her element, tyrannizing the kitchen staff – elf and human alike – and bemoaning both their general lack of competency and the impossible duty placed upon her aging shoulders in being charged with producing a feast for a king from a kitchen staffed with sluggards and halfwits. Eleanor accepted her complaints with a knowing smile; the scents that filled the kitchen made it clear that the meal would be more than acceptable.

"Just keep that hound away!" the old woman called after them as they left the kitchen. Brego had stayed outside at Talia's command; he barked happily as Nan followed them to the door and pitched him a scrap of meat and a glower. "That's all you'll be getting from here, so don't think to be begging from anyone, you hear me?" The mabari's stub of a tail bobbed as he bolted down the meat, then turned to pad down the cobblestoned path alongside his mistress.

From the direction of the front gate, a horn sounded a single, clear note.

"They've spotted the royal procession." Talia knew the signals as well as any of the guard. A single horn meant approaching guests; two was a general muster for inspection, and three warned of an attack. The latter had not been heard in her lifetime.

They encountered Bryce descending, accompanied by Fergus, Oriana and Oren.

"I can hold him if you like," Talia offered as her nephew reached out for her with a happy shriek.

"Take him, then," Oriana laughed, passing off the squirming toddler, who promptly made a grab for the mother-of-pearl comb.

"Oh, no you don't!" Fergus caught his son up in response to Eleanor's look. "I don't know who your Granna paid to get your aunt so dressed up, but we'd best make sure it lasts for a bit. Be glad you're a man, Oren; we don't have to worry about fancy hair." He ruffled his son's hair and Oren returned the favor.

Talia glared at her brother. It wasn't _that_ fancy, but he was right. He and their father just had to have their hair cut and combed, and they didn't have to bother with dresses. _And_ they could both armor up and spar with the King and his guards.

Out of nowhere, Oriana was brandishing a comb. "Fergus Cousland, if you think I'll let you greet King Cailan with your head looking like a haystack, you're sadly mistaken! Give Oren to your father and bend down!" Oren laughed, well pleased with the game as he was handed off a third time and his mother took the comb to Fergus' hair.

"Care to come with me to inspect the guard, Pup?" Bryce invited her as he swung Oren onto his shoulders.

"Yes, sir!" She fell into step beside him as he strode toward the courtyard. All guards not assigned to duty stations had assembled and were standing at attention in inspection formation. Newly polished armor gleamed, and the Highever crest adorned each crisp set of livery. The Teyrn greeted Captain Garlin with a nod as the old soldier snapped a smart salute. Turning, Bryce walked slowly up and down the ranks, examining each in turn. Talia held her breath as he reached Rory Gilmore, but after a long moment, her father turned back to Garlin.

"Very good, Ser. They may take their positions at the gate."

The Captain saluted again and barked out a command. As one, twoscore men turned on a heel, marching in step toward the gates. Talia watched them go, unable to suppress a wistful twinge at the thought of her own armor, no less carefully cleaned and polished on the chance that she might get to spar with Ser Cauthrien.

"Cheer up, Pup," her father told her, draping an arm around her shoulders as he led her to the great hall. "Cailan and Anora will be here for three days, then they'll be off, and things can get back to normal."

"Yes, Papa." He knew what she wanted, and she gave brief thought to trying to plead her case with him, but she had learned at an early age that attempting to play her parents against each other seldom ended well.

A brief reunion in the hall, where Oren was passed back to Fergus and Eleanor spent a few moments straightening Bryce's tunic and fussing with Talia's hair, and the Cousland clan walked together to the steps in the courtyard to await the King's arrival, the rest of the castle's occupants gathering in doorways, windows and around the edges of the yard where the guard had drawn up in two lines before the gate.

The crown arrived in a blur of richly appointed coaches, ornate barding and gleaming armor. Of course, the king and queen of Ferelden could not travel unaccompanied, and the assortment of guards, servants and noble hangers-on seemed likely to double the population of Castle Cousland, but Talia had eyes only for the tall figure in armor that stepped up to the King's coach as it stopped.

Ser Cauthrien was tall for a woman: tall as Fergus, and looked every bit as formidable as the men of Maric's Shield in her armor. The massive greatsword at her back gleamed in the sun: the Summer Sword, given to the knight by Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, who had claimed it from a defeated Orlesian lord. All but her face was hidden by the helm she wore; the upraised visor revealed features that gave the lie to the jape she'd heard in the barracks (when they didn't realize she was listening) that any woman that took up the sword must be too ugly to land a husband. The other members of Maric's Shield lined up in formation beside their commander as the door to the coach swung open and King Cailan emerged.

The Fereldan monarch looked every inch a king: tall, blonde and broad shouldered, smiling wide at the cheers that greeted his appearance and lifting a hand to wave to the onlookers before turning to assist his queen. Anora looked just as regal as her husband, but her smile was more distant, cooler as her blue eyes swept the courtyard, acknowledging the cheers with a polite nod.

"Your Majesties." Bryce stepped forward, bowing respectfully, the motion mirrored by Fergus, while Eleanor, Oriana and Talia curtsied. "Welcome to Highever. I hope your journey was comfortable."

"In these?" Cailan gestured to the coach with an easy smile. "It's almost as comfortable as being in the palace at Denerim, and much easier for the horses to pull. It's good to see you, Your Graces, Fergus...and my future liege-man." He reached out to ruffle Oren's hair, placed a courtly kiss on Oriana's hand, then paused before Talia, hazel eyes twinkling. "Your Grace, you forgot to tell me that your daughter is growing up. You must bring her to Denerim; she can be part of my lady wife's retinue and we'll find a handsome husband for her."

Talia's polite thanks was overwhelmed by Fergus' laughing rejoinder. "My sister would far rather you found her a handsome sword and made her part of your guard, Your Majesty!"

Eleanor looked mortified, and Talia couldn't decide whether she wanted to kick her brother or hug him, but Cailan gave her a merry smile, calling over his shoulder, "Did you hear that, Ser Cauthrien? You'll soon have a new applicant to the Shield."

"A skilled sword is always welcome to earn their place in our ranks, Your Majesty," the knight replied politely, clear grey eyes regarding Talia without showing either scorn or interest. But she was _looking_ at her, and that realization alone was enough to keep Talia's thoughts spinning in exhilaration as Eleanor deftly turned the talk away from swords and guards by complimenting the Queen on her dress.

Dinner was a lively affair. The great hall was full to bursting, the tables groaning under the bounty of Nan's kitchen, the minstrels taking their turns in front of the head table all but unheard beneath the noise of half a hundred conversations carried on at once. Talia could barely hear the talk between King Cailan, her father and Fergus, but she strained to listen, because they were discussing a joint practice between Maric's Shield and the members of the Highever guard on the following day. The King would be participating, as well, and Fergus...

So intent was she on the conversation that her mother had to speak her name three times to draw her attention.

"Sorry," she murmured sheepishly under Eleanor's reproving gaze. "What were you saying?"

"I was asking if you would like to come with Her Majesty, Oriana and myself when we go into Highever Town tomorrow," her mother repeated. "I wanted to show the Queen Artello's jewelry shop and the work of that elvish apprentice that Dayvid has making his trim now. The boy is incredibly talented," she added in an aside to Anora.

Talia knew a command when she heard it, knew also that the trip would undoubtedly coincide with the fighter practice. _Three days_. She swallowed the surge of bitter disappointment, summoned her best smile. "I would like that very much," she lied smoothly. "Thank you."

Mollified, her mother returned to her conversation with Anora, leaving Talia alone with her thoughts. She felt sorry for her mother, in a way. Noblewomen wanted daughters they could dress up and take to court and marry off to good matches; Eleanor Cousland had gotten stuck with a changeling child who wanted none of these things. All Talia wanted – all that she had wanted from her earliest memories – was to fight. Being in armor, sword in hand as she squared off against an opponent, energized her as nothing else did. And she was _good_ at it! If she'd been a boy, there would have been talk of training for knighthood: a common and honorable path for younger sons of the nobility. There would have been no mention of putting fighting aside for marriage. Men could do both. Her mother's words about Rory had been an encouraging surprise, but it still rankled that she would have to be _allowed_ to fight by her future husband.

If only she'd been alive during the rebellion against the Orlesians! Her own mother had fought then, and Queen Rowan, and many other women, battling alongside the men -

" - she's Loghain's whore."

An odd trick of acoustics carried the words to her ears through the din of conversations, and she sat up a bit, scanning the diners nearest the head table until she identified the most likely speakers: two of the young women who had arrived as part of the royal entourage, ladies-in-waiting to some noblewoman or other. They were watching Ser Cauthrien, who stood just behind King Cailan, their lips curled in disdain, eyes bright with gleeful spite.

"- likely the king's, as well," the other was saying. "How else would she have risen to that rank, if not on her back?"

"And it was _Maric_ who elevated her!" the other exclaimed with a scandalized expression. "Do you think she -" She fell silent as she realized that Talia was staring at her, and then they both became very intent upon the food on their plates.

Talia was aghast, then outraged. This was _Ser Cauthrien_! Her skill with the Summer Sword was near legendary, her courage and dedication to duty known throughout Ferelden, and these little fools sat there speaking of her as if she were some kind of camp follower!

She turned her head, on the verge of speaking with her father, informing him of the insult that had been given to a guest beneath his roof, and realized that Ser Cauthrien was looking right at her again. Grey eyes regarded her briefly, the knight's expression offering no clue to her thoughts as she gave a barely perceptible shake of her head before turning her impassive gaze forward once more.

She had heard the women's spiteful talk, then. The knowledge burned in Talia's gut like a hot coal, and she did no more than pick at what remained on her plate until the meal came to an end. There would be more socializing in the great hall and the courtyard, with music and possibly dancing, as well, but Talia had done what was expected of her this night, and she gained a grateful smile from Oriana and an approving nod from her mother when she offered to take Oren up and tuck him in.

The feat was easier promised than accomplished, however. The toddler had spent much of the meal being fed sweets of all kinds by the King, far more than he was usually allowed, leaving him so wound up that it required a wrestling session with Brego and no fewer than four stories before he settled enough to stay in his bed.

Watching his eyes finally beginning to drift closed, she took the oil lamp and crept to the door, Brego beside her. Her own bed was calling, though she was far from eager to hurry the coming of the next day and the shopping expedition.

"Talia!"

She turned, raising a finger to her lips as Rory jogged up to her, armor clinking in the silent hallway. Oren adored him, and if he knew he was about, he'd be out of bed in a heartbeat, wanting to play more.

"Wake him and you get to keep him company," she warned him in a whisper as she led him away from Oren's room. "What are you doing here, anyway? You're still on duty."

"I told Grethel that I had to take a piss," he replied with a shrug and a grin. "I needed to talk to you. I heard Ser Cauthrien talking to Captain Garlin after dinner, asking if she could use the practice yard before dawn." He looked down at her, enormously pleased with himself. "Nobody else in the guard will be around at that hour, and as late as the revelries are going tonight, the rest of the castle will likely sleep in, as well." When she hesitated, he pressed on. "Your mother didn't say you couldn't talk to her or watch her practicing, did she?"

"No." Talia chewed at her lower lip, weighing the risks. Surely her mother wouldn't object to her speaking with the knight? It wasn't as though she'd be doing something irrevocable, like cutting her hair off. She should ask permission, but that risked an outright refusal that she could not defy. Better to beg forgiveness, if it came to that. Who knew if she'd get another chance like this? "I'll do it," she said decisively. "Thank you."

"My pleasure, your ladyship," he replied, dipping a bow and dodging the swat she directed at him. "You'd better get some rest; I heard some of the others in Maric's Shield say that she's up two hours before dawn every day to practice."

Talia pondered that as she returned to her room. She had pushed herself hard to improve her fighting skill, taking to the practice ring daily – unless duty decreed otherwise – but rising each day well before the sun to practice alone was something that had never occurred to her, a dedication that shamed her more than a little. She slept fitfully, waking often to peer out the window, gauging the time remaining before sunrise. At last, she decided that sleeping again risked sleeping too long. She donned a simple tunic, trews and boots, draping a light cloak over her shoulders and drawing the hood up.

"Stay," she ordered Brego softly. If she was noticed alone, she'd likely be taken for a servant headed for early morning duties, but the mabari would identify her to even the most casual observer. Brego chuffed softly and dropped his massive head back to the bed, more than willing to be left to his sleep.

She moved through the darkened halls with the confidence of one who had navigated every step and turn from the time she learned to walk. Patrols in the interior of the castle were light and easily avoided; once she was outside, she kept to the shadows. She'd played this game as a young girl, imagining that the castle had been taken by the Orlesians, that she alone could save it. It was easy to slip back into the old fantasy, pretending that the men she had known since childhood were hostile invaders, ducking around corners and hugging to the walls to evade their eyes. They had frequently pretended not to notice her as a child, but this night, none of them saw her; she was sure of it, and part of her realized that this was not as it should be, that decades of peace had dulled their alertness. That same part knew that her father should be notified, but the majority of her attention was focused on reaching the practice yard undetected, and the first muted sound of steel on wood pushed all other thoughts from her mind.

Highever's practice yard had been constructed well away from the areas of the castle that contained sleeping quarters, in a corner with the outer wall of the keep on two sides, with the mess hall of the barracks and the smithy and armory enclosing the other two sides. Large enough for drilling, several one-on-one sparring sessions or a larger melee, the edge was ringed by stout oaken pells set into iron bases that were bolted to the stone. The wood was replaced regularly; even the blunted practice weapons chipped them down to half their diameter after a few weeks.

Talia peered around the corner of the smithy, staying hidden in the shadows beneath the hammered tin awning that shielded Master Dougal's outer forge from sun, rain and snow. A single torch burned in one of the iron sconces on the outer barracks wall, casting its flickering light on a small section of the yard. Ser Cauthrien, fully armored, stood between two of the pells, a practice blade in her hands and the Summer Sword secured at her back. Her movements were precise and controlled, striking first one, then the other; low and high, then high and low, then high and high, following no set pattern. She pivoted to face the one on her left, a flurry of blows striking visible chips from the wood, then spun to slash at the one behind, finishing the turn with the greatsword held at the ready.

"You might as well come on out," she said without looking around.

Talia swallowed hard and emerged from the shadows. The castle was her home; she had every right to be there, but she still felt a flush of shame, as though she'd been caught trespassing.

"My apologies, Ser Cauthrien," she said, lowering the hood of her cloak as she stepped into the torchlight. "I wanted to watch you practice."

"Lady Talia." If the knight was surprised by her presence, she gave no sign. "You're welcome to watch, but creeping up on someone holding a weapon is a good way to get hurt."

"I'll remember that," Talia promised, selecting a vantage point against the wall and trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

Ser Cauthrien nodded and returned to her practice, seeming to forget that she had an observer, her focus honed down to her blade and the pells as she worked through a set of increasingly complex drills. After perhaps a quarter of an hour, she paused, sliding her helmet off, a light sheen of sweat gleaming on her face in the torchlight. "Your brother said that you fight?"

"I do," Talia replied.

Grey eyes took her measure. "Any good?"

"Better than some, not so good as others," she said after a brief search for an answer that would not sound like bragging, though she couldn't help adding, "I can best Fergus sometimes, though." That achievement, new this past year, was the one that she took the most satisfaction in.

Ser Cauthrien nodded, then said, "Did you want to armor up?"

Talia's heart soared, then fell. "I can't," she said, feeling an utter fool. "I promised my mother that I wouldn't while the King was here. She doesn't think it's proper for ladies to fight."

The knight snorted softly. "That would explain her expression when your brother mentioned swords," she mused, "though I seem to recall tales from the war with Orlais that paint her as a formidable warrior in her own right."

"She fought alongside my father then," Talia said with pride, then huffed a sigh, "but she says there's no need for that any more, that my husband will want a wife who can manage a household."

"That's usually the way of it," Ser Cauthrien agreed, not without sympathy, then, "Have they selected your husband already?"

"No." Talia shook her head. "They want me to pick my own. Mother even said that Rory Gilmore would be a suitable match." Realizing that the commander of Maric's Shield likely had no idea who Rory was, she hastened to explain. "He's a bann's son, training to be a knight of Highever. He's my best friend."

The knight nodded. "There are worse ways to begin a marriage," she observed quietly. "You are fortunate that your parents are willing to give consideration to your preferences. I've seen many girls brought to court and shown like a prize brood mare, then all but sold to the man who will benefit her father the most."

"I know," Talia sighed. She should be more grateful for the concessions that her mother had made. She knew that, but, "I just want to fight." She regarded the older woman seriously. "If I ran away, would the army take me?"

To her credit, the knight did not scoff – not openly, anyway – but actually seemed to give the question consideration before answering. "They likely would, if you were good enough, but are you ready to give up your family?"

"You gave up yours," Talia replied defensively, though the prospect was a daunting one, if she allowed herself to consider it. Her parents would be angry at first, but surely they would forgive her in time?

"I watched my mother die giving birth to my youngest sister," Cauthrien said after a moment. "To my father, I was another mouth to feed and a pair of hands and a strong back to earn my keep until he got the highest bride price for the least dowry. Once married, I would have been expected to work on my husbands holdings and bear children until I no longer could or died in the attempt. When I was fifteen, I watched one of my older sisters die trying to deliver twins. They died with her. When Teyrn Loghain offered to take me, train me, my father's only concern was that he not be cheated of my bride price." There was no bitterness in the words, only a statement of fact. "I never looked back, never regretted it. Is that what you'll be leaving?"

"No." Talia said softly, ashamed at the admission, feeling like a spoiled noble brat. "Not even close." She ducked her head. "But fighting is the only thing I'm good at." She wasn't bad at dancing, but her needlework was atrocious, and household accounts were utterly beyond her. She'd be a terrible wife.

"I rather doubt that," the knight replied, "but I think I'd like to see for myself how good you are."

Talia looked up in surprise, eagerness leaping in her chest, then falling just as quickly. "I can't," she said, frustrated. "I promised."

"What exactly did you promise?" Cauthrien wanted to know.

"I promised that I wouldn't put on my armor until after the King left."

The knight nodded thoughtfully. "So, strictly speaking, if you were to simply take up a weapon and try to hit me, you would not be breaking your promise?"

Talia didn't dare give herself time to think about that. "No."

"Then do it. What have you trained with?"

"Sword and shield, mostly."

"Use that, then."

Talia nodded and ran into the armory, her heart racing; the torchlight through the open door was her only illumination, but weapons and armor were neatly stored on racks and hooks, and she quickly found the sword and shield that she used to practice. When she emerged, Ser Cauthrien had donned her helmet and drawn the Summer Sword.

"It's beautiful," Talia said in a hushed voice as she approached. The silverite blade gleamed in the torchlight, lines of lyrium etched worked into the metal shimmering along its length.

"It's deadly," the knight replied, "but it's better balanced, easier to control. Do your best to hit me."

Talia managed to nod, suddenly quite certain that she was about to make a fool of herself. Without her armor, her balance felt wrong, her movements clumsy. Ser Cauthrien easily blocked her first awkward strikes, and Talia felt her face flame with embarrassment.

"Relax," was all Cauthrien said, settling back into a ready stance and waiting for her. Easier said than done, but after what seemed an eternity of stilted sparring, Talia's muscles finally remembered what they knew; her attacks became smoother, swifter. The knight turned most of her blows aside with the Summer Sword, but a very few connected...and then a few more.

Faster now, trepidation giving way to delight as they circled and danced in and out of the light of the torch. Talia kept in motion; speed and agility had always been her greatest advantages, and in fighting against a two-handed sword, both were needed, to get in close, deliver the attack, then evade the counterattack. Ser Cauthrien only used her blade to block, but the massive blade was a daunting sight all the same, faint ripples coruscating along the lyrium runes each time Talia's sword struck it, the ring of metal on metal punctuated by the knight's periodic instructions:

"Feet wider."

"Don't cross your legs when you move." A sudden push on her shield sending her stumbling to illustrate the point. "Puts you off balance."

"Follow through. Let the weight of the sword do the work."

"Mind your distance."

"Keep your shield up."

Talia listened, did her best to obey, and felt a swell of satisfaction as more of her attacks made it past the knight's defenses. Still not many, but more than before. At last, Cauthrien stepped back, lowering her sword.

"Not bad," she said as she slipped her helmet off and strode to the water barrel. She poured the first ladle over her head, drank the second and third, then passed the ladle to Talia. "You have the skill, a good eye for openings. Practice will take care of the rest."

"Thank you." The succinct words from this warrior were more heartening than the most effusive praise. "And thank you for teaching me. Am I -" She hesitated, went on. "Am I good enough? For the army, I mean?"

"For the army? Aye, and likely even the Shield with time and training, but," Cauthrien raised a finger to forestall Talia's elated reaction, "not until you are eighteen."

Talia's heart sank. "You were fifteen, weren't you?" she protested.

"I was," the knight confirmed, "and my father cared only for getting a fair price for the loss of my work. You've a family here that loves you, but it's more than that. As a woman, you will have to fight twice as hard, be twice as good, to get even half the credit given to any man, and even then, there will be some who think you only have one use."

"Like those women last night?" Talia asked, knowing the answer, anger kindling in her chest anew at the memory. "They were fools. Why didn't you want me to say anything to my father?"

"If I challenged everyone who insulted me, I'd get very little else done," Cauthrien said with a wry smile. "There are fools everywhere, and very few of them can hurt you with words. Pay attention to the ones whose opinions really matter and ignore the rest. Words are far from the worst thing you'll face; your birth and station have shielded you, but they won't in the army. Men tried to rape me four times my first year, three times the second, only once the third. My drill sergeant saved me the first two times, but it wasn't until I could take care of myself that they stopped trying. You'll need to be ready for that. Are you?"

Talia opened her mouth, closed it again. "No," she admitted after a moment. "Probably not." The notion was not one that had ever occurred to her, but the knight would not lie.

"There's no shame in admitting it," Cauthrien said, clapping her lightly on the shoulder. "Keep training, and if you still want to join the army when you are eighteen, I'll speak with your parents. If they don't agree, you'll have to choose for yourself, understood?"

"Yes," Talia said. "Thank you." If it was not exactly what she'd hoped to hear, it was more – far more – than she'd honestly been expecting, and it gave her something to work toward. A chance she hadn't had before this morning.

A trilling whistle cut through the air, and Talia looked up in surprise, realizing that the eastern sky had begun to silver with approaching dawn. Ser Cauthrien gave her a quizzical glance.

"A bit early for larks to be out," she observed.

Talia grinned sheepishly. "That's just Rory. He can't do a nighthawk call; it sounds like a chicken being throttled. First watch must be coming on duty." Which meant Captain Garlin. "I'd better go."

The knight cocked her head. "I take it I shouldn't mention that you were here?"

"You don't have to lie," Talia replied quickly.

"Don't worry, I won't," the knight assured her, "but if no one asks..." She trailed off and shrugged.

"Thanks," Talia said gratefully. "Are you going to be practicing tomorrow morning, too?"

"I am," Cauthrien replied. "You're welcome to join me, if you like."

"I would," Talia responded immediately. "Thank you." She ducked into the armory to return sword and shield, bade the knight a hasty farewell, then darted back toward her room through shadows seemed to offer less concealment by the moment. She made it to the second floor undetected, found Rory waiting on the landing.

"Well? How did it go?" he demanded. "Did you armor up?"

"Of course not!" Talia looked at him as though he'd lost his mind, then grinned. "But I did spar with her with sword and shield. I learned a lot, and she said I can come back tomorrow morning."

"That's great!" he exclaimed, then cringed and glanced warily down the hall, but the rooms remained dark and silent. "That's great, Talia!" he repeated, this time in a whisper. "Are you going to be able to watch the practice this afternoon?"

"No." The knowledge didn't sting as much as it had the night before. "I have to go into town with Mother, Oriana and the Queen. Shopping." _That_ didn't sound any more appealing than it had, but it was bearable. "Have fun without me." She turned to go, paused, then turned back and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. "And thank you for helping me." His eyes widened in surprise, but she was gone before he could say anything.

* * *

"And that is how I know Cauthrien Maclean," Talia said. She would no more give the woman the title of 'Ser' than she would call Loghain 'Teyrn'. She turned her head, kissing her lover. "Still jealous?"

"No," Leliana said, cuddling closer, her head resting on Talia's shoulder. "Did you sneak out the next morning?"

Talia laughed softly. "Oh, yes. And the morning after that. She taught me a lot."

"And did your parents ever find out?"

"They never said anything," Talia answered, "but it wouldn't surprise me if they did. They didn't miss much." She snorted softly, "Of course, at the time, I was sure I was being completely sneaky...which is why I didn't tell my father about the guards not seeing me." She was silent for a long moment, working up the nerve to voice her thought. "If I had said something, do you think that -"

"No." A gentle finger on her lips silenced the rest of the question. "Rendon Howe planned his betrayal with care," the bard said, smoothing Talia's hair away from her face. "The guards who remained behind would have seen only friends until the time came for their betrayal. It was not a lack of vigilance that doomed Highever. It was treachery. Nothing you said could have changed that."

Talia nodded. Logic had argued for the same conclusion, but there would always be a part of her that would both seek something that she could have done to stop Howe and dread the confirmation that there had been. "I saw her a couple more times, when we traveled to Denerim, but I never got to practice with her again. Then – after – she was at Ostagar. She told me that Howe would be brought to justice for what he did, that the King would see to it." She felt her lips curve in a mirthless smile. "She looked me in the eye and lied." The burn of that betrayal still smoldered in her chest. "And I believed her. I was such a fool." To lie to her had been bad enough, but how could Cauthrien have betrayed the King she had sworn to defend?

"You trusted one who had given you no reason not to. One that you admired," Leliana said softly. "There is no shame in that, my love."

"The girl she lied to is dead," Talia said flatly. "She died at Ostagar." The pain of her losses had become bearable – having Fergus back alive had helped – but her life before felt more and more like a dream.

"No." Tender hands turned her to face the bard. "She has learned hard lessons and grown, but she lives on. She won my heart, and has it still." Her first kiss was a gentle brush of her lips against Talia's, then another, deepening as they drew each other closer, the fires that were never fully banked kindling readily.

"Now," Leliana breathed when they parted. "Tell me more of Rory."

"If I make you jealous, do I get ravished again?" Talia teased her gently, hands drifting over bare skin beneath the blankets. The door to their rooms had barely closed behind them before Leliana had her pressed hard against it, tugging at the straps of her armor, then her clothes, with an insistence that would not be denied. It had been some time before they'd made it to the bed, and even longer before there had been any conversation between them.

"I'll do that anyway," the Orlesian promised, though she blushed prettily, "but I'd not begrudge you your first love."

"Unless they might be standing before you?" the Warden inquired with a sly smile, slipping her hand beneath her lover's chin when she ducked her head, lifting gently until she could look into the remorseful blue eyes. "You are my first love," she whispered. She'd said it before, and she would keep saying it - and proving it - until Leliana believed it. "Rory and I never did become more than the best of friends. Maybe we would have married on the strength of that alone in time, and likely have been happy enough, but..." She trailed off, shrugged with a sad smile, remembering Rory as she'd last seen him: bloodied and weary, but grimly determined, bidding her to go, holding the gates to give her and her family time to get to safety. "It was not meant to be, and I'll always regret his death, but I will never regret finding you, loving you."

Her answer was a passionate kiss, and conversation ceased again for a time. Later, Leliana slept, but Talia's slumber was fitful and broken, troubled by dreams of Cauthrien cutting Rory down before the gates, then turning to Talia and saying, "You see how it's done?"

A knock at the door brought her out of her doze. Slipping from the bed, she pulled on a robe as she made her way to the door.

"Fergus? What's wrong?"

"Sorry to wake you, little sister," her brother apologized, "but the Arl's had a visitor: the queen's maid." He smiled thinly, but his eyes were chips of green ice. "It seems that my prospective bride is in need of rescue from her loving father."


	59. Rescue And Revenge

Fergus had visited the estate of the Arl of Denerim often in his younger years, before his falling-out with Vaughan. He knew the layout of the ground floor well enough, though the décor had changed considerably. Arl Urien had been an arrogant man, but his tastes had been understated. Rendon Howe's approach to decorating was as acquisitive as his quest for titles: he liked _more_. More elaborately carved woodwork on his furniture, more expensive Orlesian tapestries on the walls, more luxurious Antivan rugs on the floors, more pictures in gilded frames, more embroidered upholstery, more...everything.

Fortunately, the 'more' also extended to guards, so the addition of a few _more_ in the livery that Erlina had secreted out of the estate drew little attention in comparison to the crowd of angry creditors and workmen clamoring for pay; evidently, Howe was not as dedicated to paying for his possessions as he was in obtaining them. Small surprise.

Eamon had not been pleased when Fergus had announced that he would be accompanying the Wardens, but Fergus had not been asking. He was damned if he would send his younger sister in his stead to rescue the woman he might well be proposing marriage to, even if he suspected that Talia could accomplish the task without his aid. It was the first time he had accompanied her in such a situation, and if he had barely recognized her when he had first seen her as a Grey Warden at Redcliffe, he knew her even less now: a seasoned warrior moving through hostile territory.

She strode at his right, dark eyes constantly moving, hungry and alert, Leliana beside her, Alistair and Morrigan behind. Temulun was to his left; the Chasind had foregone his own gear for a set of leathers, his braids hidden beneath a helm. If there was any chance that Fergus might encounter the one who had murdered his family, his battle-brother intended to be at his side.

They had entered through a servant's door in the rear, Erlina distracting the two guards on duty with a breathless claim of darkspawn in the stables. They moved purposefully through the keep, and no one questioned them.

"Where to?" Talia asked as they reached the main entry hall. Anora's maid had told them where her mistress was being held: in one of the guest rooms on the first floor. Evidently, Howe was not fool enough to put Loghain's daughter in his dungeons, but the fact that he had her at all was appalling. Loghain Mac Tir had been a hero to Fergus when he was growing up; the betrayal at Ostagar, the heavy-handed dealings with the Bannorn had been hard enough to swallow, but to allow his own daughter, Ferelden's queen to be imprisoned? Was the man totally mad?

"This way," he said, leading the way down one of the halls, counting doors as he went, frowning as he approached what should be the one: no guards were stationed outside. Not that he was complaining, but...

"Where are the guards?" Talia asked, echoing his own thoughts with a frown. He shook his head, tried the door, found it locked.

"Allow me?" At Leliana's softly voiced request, he stepped aside to allow the bard to examine the door, Talia hovering warily beside her. The redhead pulled a set of lockpicks from a pocket in her leathers, tested the lock briefly, then drew back. "Something besides a physical mechanism holds it," she reported, looking to Morrigan. Something had occurred between the two of them on the trip to Denerim; there was still no hint of warmth in the relationship, but the air no longer crackled with volatile hostility.

The witch stepped forward, brushing her fingers over the lock plate lightly. "Magic," she confirmed. "A complex weaving. It cannot be simply dispelled."

"Is someone there?" The voice from behind the heavy door was slightly distorted by the thick wood, but recognizable. Talia glanced to Fergus, and he stepped closer to the door as the witch moved away.

"Your Majesty, Arl Eamon sent us," he said, keeping his voice low and deciding not to use his name. There remained a chance that this could be an elaborate trap. "Your maid claims that you are being held here against your will."

"Erlina brought you?" The relief in the Queen's voice was audible. "Thank the Maker! Howe has gone mad, and my father -" The words faltered briefly, then steadied. "They must be stopped. If you can get me out of here, you – and Arl Eamon – will have my gratitude."

Fergus nodded, feeling no real triumph at the prospect. Betrayed by her own father? He could not begin to imagine how Anora must feel. "Your Majesty, the door is secured by a spell."

"It can only be removed by the mage who cast it," Anora confirmed. "Howe keeps him close and well guarded."

A thin smile, devoid of any mirth, touched his lips, mirrored in his sister's expression. Neither of them would have forsaken the rescue for vengeance, but nor would they object if the chance offered itself along the way. "Do you have any idea where they might be found, Your Majesty?" If they kept wandering about, sooner or later, one of the real guards was going to question them, and things would likely get violent very quickly.

"The dungeons." The reply was prompt, the distaste plain. "According to the gossip of the guards and servants, that is where he prefers to spend his time. There is supposedly a door to the lower levels in the Arl's private rooms."

"In his bedroom?" Alistair looked revolted. "That's beyond creepy."

"That's Rendon Howe," Talia murmured, her dark eyes as hard as obsidian, hunger burning beneath, but she had drawn closer to Leliana, whose fair skin had paled visibly at the word 'dungeons'.

"Not just him, apparently," Fergus added. Rendon Howe was a relative newcomer to a mansion that had been built at least two centuries earlier. How many Arls had used those lower levels for that dark purpose? "We will return, Your Majesty."

"Be careful," she warned as they moved away. Fergus had never been inside the Arl's suite, but he knew where it was. They encountered no more guards on the way; as with the rest of Howe's acquisitions, style trumped substance, and military discipline appeared to be in short supply.

The door was locked, but no spells had been used, and Leliana made quick work of the mechanism. There was a brief moment, balanced on the knife edge between anticipation and dread, when Fergus more than half expected to find himself facing Rendon Howe when the door opened, but the rooms beyond were empty. The group moved inside quickly, closing the door and reengaging the lock behind them.

Here even more than elsewhere, Howe's penchant for _more_ was evident: luxurious rugs on the floor, paintings and tapestries on the walls, heavy velvet curtains at the windows, shelves of books lining the walls of the study, the scent of Howe's cologne heavy in the air, and silk sheets in a rumpled mess on the massive four-poster bed.

Bypassing the bedroom, they entered the study, Leliana immediately moving to the desk and sorting through the papers scattered carelessly across its surface as the rest of them approached the second door in the room: a heavy construct of iron-bound oaken planks with an equally heavy bar leaning against the wall to the side; the iron brackets meant to secure it across the door, preventing it from being forced open from the other side, were empty.

"Looks like he's down there," Talia murmured, meeting his eyes. Fergus nodded, not trusting himself to speak, seeing the emotion churning his blood to fire reflected in his sister's face.

"Talia, Alistair," Leliana spoke up. "This appears to be a letter from the Grey Wardens in Orlais."

They both moved to the desk, Alistair taking the letter from her and scanning the contents. "It says that they were sending an envoy to Ferelden to evaluate the darkspawn threat and the need for assistance from the Grey Wardens!"

"About damn time," Talia growled, hope warring with irritation in her eyes. More Wardens would be a much needed blessing, but Alistair was shaking his head even as she spoke.

"According to this, they should have arrived in Denerim weeks ago," he said, his brow furrowed in bafflement. "We should have heard something."

"If their journey started in Denerim, it may have ended here," Talia suggested darkly.

In spite of himself, Fergus was aghast at the notion. "Murdering Grey Wardens? With a Blight on our doorstep?" That went beyond madness, surely.

"Loghain never believed it was a Blight," Talia replied with a shrug, the look that she gave him one of someone wise to the world addressing an innocent, and it hurt him more that a little to see that weary knowledge in her eyes. "He's likely mistaken the darkspawn withdrawing to the Deep Roads as a retreat, the way that Eamon did." She reached out, tilting the letter so that she could see it. "It's addressed to the Queen. I wonder why Howe has it?" The sardonic tilt to her mouth made it clear that the question was a rhetorical one.

"Shall we ask him?" Alistair inquired in the same vein, tucking the document away in his belt pouch. It would be another blow against Loghain and Howe at the Landsmeet.

"I'd recommend talking quickly, if you do," Talia replied. "I don't plan on having a lengthy discussion." She glanced at the closed door, then back to Leliana, her worry plain. "If you want to stay up here, guard the way out," she began, but the bard was shaking her head before she had finished speaking.

"I do not fear him," she declared fiercely. "I will be with you when you confront this monster."

Talia nodded, the harsh lines of her face softening considerably as she leaned down to kiss her lover. Morrigan assumed an expression of haughty disdain, but made no comment.

"What say we get out of here before we suffocate on bad cologne?" Alistair suggested, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "I'd know this was Howe's room by the stench alone." The scent of the atrocious perfume that Howe favored was strong, but beneath it was an odor even more unpleasant, growing stronger when Fergus opened the door, revealing a stairway lit by a single oil lamp leading downward to another closed door. It was a foul mix of blood and sweat, piss and shit all blended together into an acrid stew, wafting upward from below. Small wonder that Howe made such liberal use of the cologne upstairs.

Pausing only long enough for Talia and Alistair to release the straps securing their shields to their backs, settling them into position on their arms, they filed silently down the stairs, Leliana leading the way with Talia hovering close behind as she examined the door, which proved to be unlocked and less stoutly built than its counterpart.

The door opened into a torchlit corridor, the stench even stronger and faint cries and moans that had not been audible through the door echoing from the stone walls. They filed out quick and quiet, but almost immediately their luck ran out as a pair of guards turned the corner.

The speed of Talia's response stunned Fergus; she was on the closest of the two before he could draw his sword, her own blade slashing his throat while the sweep of her shield caught the other, sending him careening into the bars of a cell. As the first guard fell to the floor, blood fountaining from the mortal wound, Fergus moved to take on the other, but stopped when a thin and filthy arm snaked from between the bars of the cell and looped around the guard's neck. The guard struggled in vain, his mouth working soundlessly and his face darkening from red to purple as the arm tightened inexorably, then jerked hard. There was a dull crack, and the guard went limp, his head lolling on his shoulders and his eyes open, sightless.

The entire struggled had elapsed in less than a minute, with blessedly little noise, but it still marked the turning of the hourglass. Whether the bodies were found or the pair were missed, it was now only a matter of time before their presence here was discovered.

The arm slipped from around the dead man's neck, letting him fall to the floor. They all watched warily as the prisoner took the keys from the guard's belt and unlocked the door to the cell. In theory, anyone imprisoned by Rendon Howe was a potential ally, but -

"You're a Warden," Talia said in surprise to the dirty and unshaven man who emerged. How she knew, Fergus had no idea, but the man nodded.

"As are you," he replied, the faintest touch of an Orlesian accent to his voice. "It seems the demise of the Fereldan Order has been inaccurately reported." His cracked lips quirked in a wry smile. "I cannot say that I am surprised at the lie."

"It almost wasn't a lie," Talia replied, gesturing to Fergus and Temulun that they should hide the two bodies, then visibly catching herself and starting to apologize.

"It's all right, little sister," he assured her. It was a task that needed to be done, and he and Temulun saw to it, dragging the two bodies into the newly vacant cell and throwing moldy straw over them. With the door closed, in the dim light, they would be missed unless someone looked closely. As they kicked dirt over the fresh blood on the floor, Talia and Alistair spoke with the man in hushed voices.

His name was Riordan, and he was indeed from the Orlesian Wardens, sent to negotiate after the Wardens and chevaliers had been turned away at the border. Unfortunately for him, the dignitary that he met with turned out to be Rendon Howe, and the wine he was served with dinner turned out to be drugged.

"That was...some time ago," Riordan admitted, rubbing at his unkempt whiskers as though using them to judge the time passed. "I take it that the Order has no idea of my whereabouts?"

"Highly likely," Alistair confirmed. "We haven't seen or heard of any other Grey Wardens since Ostagar."

"Duncan is dead, then," Riordan sighed, his features hardening. "The loss of the Wardens at Ostagar were initially regarded as tragic happenstance, but rumors began to suggest otherwise, and with the reception I met with...this Howe will have much to answer for once I make my report to Orlais."

"We're planning on that a bit sooner," Talia replied. "A Landsmeet convenes in two days, and we intend to push for Loghain to be removed from his position, and Howe with him. Your testimony would likely help sway many in the Bannorn who have suffered from darkspawn attacks."

"You'll have it," Riordan promised, glancing around. "I should go. Whatever you are doing, I would likely be more hindrance than help."

"The Arl of Redcliffe will be more than willing to offer you hospitality," Alistair said, looking the man over with concern. "Do you think you can make it to his estate?"

"I can," Riordan assured him with a grin that turned more than a bit rueful as he added, "Howe surprised me once, but no more." He turned toward the stairs, but Talia stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Do you -" she hesitated, glanced to Alistair, then pushed on, "Do you know how to kill the archdemon?"

Riordan looked at her in obvious surprise. "Maker's blood, you were both that new?" He murmured, looking from her to Alistair, empathy and more than a little respect in his eyes. "And yet, you pushed on. Yes, I know how the archdemon may be slain." He glanced briefly at the rest of them before adding, "We will speak of it later. Take care."

"Thank the Maker," Talia said fervently when he had gone, catching Alistair in a jubilant hug, relief plain on both their faces.

"Now we just have to live long enough to kill it," Alistair quipped.

"Piece of cake," Talia replied, stealing a quick kiss from Leliana, looking almost buoyant, and Fergus realized just how heavily their lack of that key knowledge must have been weighing on her - on both of them. And yet, as Riordan had said, they had still pushed on, laying the groundwork of alliances that would be needed to push the darkspawn hard enough to force the archdemon into a confrontation in which it could be killed. She hung back now as the others started forward. "I'm sorry," she told Fergus and Temulun. "I shouldn't have been ordering you around like -"

"No," he stopped her. "You had every right. It needed to be done, and you were seeing to Grey Warden business."

"But you're going to be King -"

"That may or may not happen," he replied, "but even if it does, Grey Wardens bow to no kings, and you _are_ a Grey Warden, little sister. Mother and Father would be proud of you."

"Really?" The warrior melted away, leaving the wistful countenance of a girl not yet nineteen, needing her brother's reassurance.

"There's not a doubt in my mind," he replied, hugging her fiercely. "They would be just as proud of you as I am."

"She needed to hear that from you," Leliana told him with a warm smile as they advanced cautiously down the narrow hall.

"I should have said it before now," he said regretfully. "I don't think I'd ever fully considered how much she has accomplished. Likely because thinking about it would scare me witless."

Leliana nodded sympathetically. "She has done remarkable things, as have you," she observed. "Your parents would be proud of you both, I think."

Her words heartened him as much as his had done for Talia, but those were the last bright spots they would enjoy as they moved ever further into the darkness of Rendon Howe's private playground. Rooms saturated with the stench of blood and death, tools that Fergus had no name for, their sinister appearances suggestive of unspeakable purpose and bits of flesh and hair frequently still clinging to them. Dead bodies, strapped to tables or piled on the floor like trash, with grievous injuries that made it clear that their deaths had not been either quick or painless.

"Why would he do this?" Leliana asked softly, reaching out to close the eyes of an emaciated man whose body they had found stretched on a rack. He'd died while they fought his torturers. The Orlesian frequently murmured prayers over the dead, but she had not flinched away from sights and sounds that had to be unsettlingly familiar.

"Because he can," Morrigan replied simply. Though the witch had fought alongside them without hesitation, healing their wounds after each battle, she had regarded the maimed corpses and instruments of torture with a detached, disinterested mien that made Fergus uneasy. "He is a weak man who believes that such actions prove his strength."

"No more," Talia growled, dark fire blazing in her eyes. "This ends today."

Golden eyes turned to the Warden. "He will seek to goad your anger, to make you act rashly." Her gaze shifted to include Fergus in her warning. "If you allow him to control you thusly, you give him the advantage."

"She is right, my love," Leliana said, slipping her hand beneath Talia's helm to touch her cheek. "He will face justice this day. Justice," she repeated, blue eyes solemn, "not revenge." Talia had told Fergus of the vision of their father in the Gauntlet, his words to her; the bard indeed knew his sister well. Talia nodded, closing her eyes and drawing several deep breaths before opening them, the fires of rage banked.

"Justice," she said, her voice low and steady, her eyes holding his, making the word a promise.

He nodded. "For all of them." For their parents, for Oriana and Oren. For the people of Highever. For the nameless ones whose bodies lay forgotten in this place.

They moved forward again, moving through still more rooms dedicated to pain and death, encountering more guards who fought with the grimness of men who knew that their crimes had earned them no quarter; a roomful of mabari trained to savagery that Morrigan dispatched with a ball of flame that left the charred bodies of the hounds lying on the floor among gnawed bones that all looked to be human. Fergus knew better by now than to think that all of them had been dead when the dogs had begun to feed.

Another chamber of torture, this one with a poor wretch they were in time to save, but as Fergus leaned over to release the chains, he felt his chest lurch with disbelieving recognition .

"Oswyn?" The face was so battered that he could barely recognize the son of Bann Sigard, but swollen eyes cracked open at his voice.

"Fer-Fergus?" His voice was rough, lips cracked and bleeding.

"Oswyn Sigard?" Talia asked as Temulun moved to the opposite side of the table, helped Fergus guide him off the hateful thing to the floor, then stepped back to allow Morrigan to heal the worst of the man's injuries. She had known him from their visits to Denerim; he'd been part of the group of nobles' sons that Fergus had kept company with. As the bruises began to fade and the swelling of his face to recede, Oswyn uttered a groan of relief, shifting to prod gingerly at what had likely been badly broken ribs. Fergus held a waterskin to his lips, drawing it back after allowing him a few greedy gulps.

"A bit at a time," he told his friend. "Don't want it coming back up."

Oswyn accepted this with a nod. "My lady, I may propose marriage to you," he said, offering a weary and wondering smile to Morrigan, who stepped back quickly.

"A simple thanks will suffice," she informed him crisply.

"My thanks, then," he replied, "and I'm in your debt. All of you." He looked around at them, his expression becoming quizzical. "What in blazes are you doing here?" He asked. "Not that I'm not glad to see you, but I hope you're not risking your necks for my sake."

"We didn't even know you were here," Fergus admitted. "What happened? How many of the others -" He broke off, unable to complete the question. They had followed him, trusted him. How many had paid for that with their lives?

"Not many," Oswyn said, shaking his head. "We got a little too bold on a raid on a supply caravan and stumbled right into an ambush." His face grew bleak. "They killed the others, but one of Howe's men recognized me." He spat on the floor, reached for the water again. Fergus let him take it, watched as he drank a few more swallows, then set the skin aside. "Andraste's tits, that makes a difference...sorry, ladies."

"We've heard worse," Talia told him with a faint smile, though her eyes remained grave. "How long have you been down here?"

"A week or so, maybe," Oswyn replied with a grimace, pushing himself to his feet. "No windows in my cell, and meals haven't exactly been regular, so it's been hard to judge. They've been trying to get me to tell them where our main encampment is located." Grim satisfaction touched his smile. "It would have been moved anyway, once they knew I'd been captured, but damned if I was going to give these bastards anything." He swayed, and Fergus reached out to catch him before he could fall.

"Have you seen Howe?" Talia wanted to know.

Oswyn nodded. "The bastard was here not half an hour ago, giving the personal touch to his ... hospitality." He nodded toward a stout iron bar. "Likes to lay that across the soles of my feet."

"It is a commonly used method of torture," Leliana observed softly, her pretty features shadowed. "The soles of the feet are … quite sensitive."

Oswyn regarded her curiously for a moment. "Aye, they are, but fortunately, I've a stubborn streak in me, and thanks to the talents of your friend here, I'll be ready for some payback in a few minutes." He stepped away from the support of Fergus' hand and nearly fell again.

"You're in no condition for revenge," Fergus told him bluntly as Temulun eased him to the floor, "and we've no time to wait. Howe is holding Queen Anora captive upstairs -" He smiled thinly as Oswyn's profanity blistered the air, "and we need to free her and be away. If I get the chance to kill Howe in the process, I'll welcome it, but if not, we intend to bury him and Loghain both at the Landsmeet. Wait here, sing out if reinforcements arrive, and we'll get you on our way out."

"I can do that," Oswyn agreed, looking disgusted at his own weakness. "Just drag one of those bastards over here, will you?" he asked, gesturing toward the slain guards. "They're not going to be needing their arms and armor now, and I can get some use out of them. Twist the blade in Howe's gut for me, will you?" he added as Temulun and Talia hauled one of the dead men to within his reach.

"If I get the chance," Fergus promised. "Any idea what lies past here?"

"Holding cells, mostly," Oswyn said, his fingers busy with the buckles securing the shoulder harness to the cuirass. "None of ours in there, as far as I've been able to tell, but from what I've heard, Howe's been taking heirs hostage to ensure cooperation from their families in the Bannorn. Cut them loose, and you'll have that many more on your side at the Landsmeet."

"Saving the Queen has to be the first priority," Fergus told him, not missing the defiant flash in Talia's eyes, the suddenly stubborn set of her jaw that he remembered all too well from Highever. Shame rose up in him, but he pushed it down resolutely. They had to keep the larger picture in mind. If they did not rescue Anora now, Howe would likely kill her and place the blame upon the intruders, a ploy that, however transparent, could sway enough nobles at the Landsmeet to doom their cause.

"Would you say that if you thought that Mother or Father were down here?" Talia demanded in a low voice as they moved forward, the look of bitter disappointment in her eyes cutting him to the quick.

"They'd have said the same thing," he replied, and it was true. Their parents had taught them both, but Talia had been young enough that she had not yet been spoken to of the harshest demands of duty, the choices that had to be made for the greater good. "We have no choice."

"Yes, we do," she shot back. "We take them out of here: all of them. And we kill Howe." Turning, she stalked away from him along the corridor.

"She'll try to do it, too," Alistair said, shaking his head slowly, though he didn't look inclined to counter her.

"She shames me," Fergus admitted softly.

"Do not be," Leliana told him. "If we do not save the Queen, any other good that we do may well come to naught in the end."

"If 'tis any consolation, her record for attempting the impossible has been surprisingly successful to date," Morrigan offered in a tone that could have been construed as either mocking or commiserating. She seemed on the verge of saying more, but her golden eyes cut briefly to Leliana, and she spoke no more.

Fergus glanced at Temulun, who shrugged. "I know nothing of queens, my brother," he said, "but when we find a mad wolf in the Wilds, we do not return to the village until it is dead and can harm no one."

Fergus nodded wearily. Mad or not, Rendon Howe was more dangerous than any wolf, but was his own hunger for vengeance coloring that judgment? He didn't know, and he wasn't going to figure it out just standing here. With a sigh, he followed his sister.

Oswyn had been right: in the damp, poorly lit cell block, they found fully half a dozen sons and younger brothers of nobles throughout the Bannorn, including a half-mad wretch of a templar who was brother to none other than Bann Alfstanna of Waking Sea, and whose disjointed ramblings connected Howe, and by extension Loghain, to the blood mage who had poisoned Arl Eamon. Whether he would ever recover sufficiently to be an effective witness was in question; leaving the poor bastard down here was not.

"Mother and Father would have said what you did," Talia told him as they helped the hostages back to the room where Oswyn waited. "But they would have done this."

"Aye," Fergus agreed tersely, anger at this newest outrage adding to the fire in his blood. Providing 'hospitality' to the heirs and family members of noble houses as insurance against treachery was an old custom, but such hostages were traditionally given board and treatment suitable to their station. Howe's 'guests' had been starved, beaten, held in cells that Fergus would not kennel a dog in. One Bann's son had been held for six months, and was nearly blind from being kept so long in darkness. None of them were in any condition to fight, but more than one of them gripped weapons taken from slain guards, anyway. Maker willing, they would not be required to use them.

"Keep them here, stay quiet," he instructed Oswyn, watching as Alistair spoke to Morrigan in a low voice, accepting a small vial from the witch and then kneeling beside the templar, holding the vial to his lips. The man clutched at the Warden's hands, swallowing whatever it was like one dying of thirst, but when Alistair drew back, he seemed marginally steadier, his blue eyes clearer.

"Lyrium," Talia said beside him. "The Chantry makes the templars use it to augment their abilities, but they get addicted to it. If they don't take it ..." She trailed off, nodding toward Alfstanna's brother – Irminric was his name, Fergus thought he recalled. "That's likely why he's in such bad shape."

"Thus does the Chantry keep their hounds leashed," Morrigan observed acerbically, though there was an odd disquiet in her eyes as she looked at the broken man.

Fergus … was unsure what to think. That Howe would torment a prisoner in any way possible was horrific, but hardly surprising. That the Chantry would require its warriors to utilize something that could do _this_ to them … he'd never heard about it, never thought about how the templars did what they did, what it might cost them. "Let's go," he said grimly. What the Chantry did was beyond his influence; Rendon Howe was not.

Sound carried oddly in the labyrinth of stone walls and corridors, but it carried; armed combat could only be so quiet, and they had clashed with guards on half a dozen occasions, no longer bothering to hide the bodies they left behind. Howe had to know that he was under attack, yet no reinforcements had been summoned. They had found one other point of egress, likely the one used by the guards, since it seemed unlikely that Howe would want them traipsing through his bedroom. If it was the only other exit, then they had him trapped down here. Not an unwelcome prospect by any means, but they could not afford to underestimate their foe; he would not simply be cowering behind a locked door.

It was Temulun who noticed first, touching a finger to his nose with a wolfish smile. Down here was the reverse of the quarters upstairs, the stench of death and torment masking the scent of Howe's cologne, but the Chasind's sense of smell was keen. A bit further on, and it was Morrigan who spoke.

"Wards," she said in a low voice, nodding toward the closed door they were approaching. "I can dispel them, but it will alert those on the other side that we are near." Her golden eyes shifted to Alistair. "The mage is a puissant one. You will be best suited to deal with him."

The Warden nodded, lips thinned into a grim line as he held out his hand to receive the vial of lyrium that she offered him. Fergus had observed her contempt for the Chantry and everything associated with it, but oddly enough, the witch offered no sardonic commentary as she watched Alistair down the lyrium with a grimace.

"Ready," he announced, squaring his shoulders. Fergus nodded, looking to Talia. His sister's face was a play of intense emotion, reflecting the feelings that were storming through his own veins. The murderer of their parents, his wife, his sweet son, lay on the other side of this door. He wanted to kill the bastard, as did she. Revenge? Justice? Was there any difference? He watched her close her eyes, draw a deep breath, release it slowly, and when she opened her eyes again, it was Leliana they sought out. The bard stepped close, kissing her gently, then standing on tiptoe to whisper to her. Fergus could not hear what was said between them, but when they drew apart after another kiss, Talia's features had settled into an expression of calm resolve.

"I'll go in first," she told him, her voice low and steady, a mirthless smile touching her lips as she added, "He's expecting me...let's give him one last surprise, shall we?"

The brother in him wanted to disagree, but the tactician could see the merit in her plan. He'd seen Talia fight; she was far from helpless, and any advantage they could claim should not be ignored. He nodded his assent, and Talia looked to Morrigan.

"Do it," she ordered tersely, Starfang held at the ready. Fergus tensed, grip tightening upon the sword and axe that he wielded as the witch lifted a hand, the words that she murmured slipping past his ears like water. At her nod, Talia stepped forward, kicking the door open and bursting through, Alistair close behind.

"Well, look here." Fergus could hear that hated voice as he and Temulun followed Morrigan and Leliana, but Howe's eyes were fixed upon Talia, his expression one of supercilious contempt. "Bryce Cousland's little spitfire, all grown up and still playing the man." Fergus's eyes swept the room: a bearded man in mage robes stood just behind Howe, dark eyes alert; four armed guards stood by, weapons at the ready. No doors apart from the one they had just come through. "I never thought you'd be fool enough to show up here...but then, I never thought you'd survive."

"Glad to disappoint you," Talia replied, a mocking smile touching her lips as she added, "But I'm not the only one."

Howe's gaze followed the tip of her head, and Fergus saw his eyes widen in surprise that the older man could not conceal, the flash of fear that was so very sweet to see. He was a canny bastard, though, and quickly schooled his features back into that arrogant sneer. "Well, this _is_ unexpected. You Couslands are difficult to kill." His lips curled into a spiteful smile. "Do you have any idea how long your father lingered with his guts spilled all over the floor of that larder?"

He was doing precisely what Morrigan had warned he would, and even knowing that, he was dangerously close to succeeding. Fergus felt his pulse thundering dully in his ears, the need to wipe that hateful smile from existence. He fought it. "Rendon Howe, you are charged with kidnapping Queen Anora," he said, his words measured, deliberate. "Surrender now, and you'll receive a fair trial." He wasn't really expecting the order to be heeded, and he was not disappointed.

"Kidnapping the Queen?" Howe feigned shock, amusement dancing in his grey eyes. "How preposterous. Her Majesty is under my protection ... protection that, sadly, will not be enough to keep her from being killed by the heartless souls that broke into my estate and slaughtered my guards." His expression twisted into a mockery of sorrow. "Tragic, but what can one expect from the offspring of a traitor?"

"My father was no traitor," Talia replied. Her words were steady, but her brown eyes were hungry with an anticipation that Fergus shared. His words made it clear: Howe would never surrender, and Fergus could not say that he was sorry at the realization.

"That is how he will be remembered," Howe told her smugly, looking at her but plainly seeing only the girl that she had been. "And now, that is how all the Couslands will be remembered."

Fergus shook his head. "He will be remembered as he truly was," he promised, letting a cold smile touch his lips as he added, "You, on the other hand, will be forgotten by this time next year, like the insignificant parasite that you are."

The taunt was a calculated one, and it hit its mark. "Insignificant, am I?" Howe snarled, eyes narrowed as he turned to glare at Talia. "Shall I tell you how your parents died after you ran like a coward? How your mother kissed my boots as your father begged for his life?" He glanced back to Fergus. "Or would you like to hear how your Antivan whore serviced my men beside the corpse of your brat?" His words were laced with venom, the sword and dagger in his hands poised to strike.

"He's lying." Talia's drawl sounded almost amused as she sauntered around him with a predator's grace. "Our mother most likely spit in his face with her last breath, and he's such a spineless worm that he sent his lackeys to kill a woman and child." Her dark eyes shifted back to Howe, her tone laden with contempt as she told him, "Even with his guts spilled across the larder floor, my father was ten times the man you will ever be."

"You little bitch!" His pinched face flushed an ugly shade. "I will wipe your family's name from Fereldan memory! Kill them! Kill them all!" He lunged for Talia, who stepped back, parrying his blade easily. Dimly, Fergus was aware of the mage staggering back as Alistair cleansed the area of magic, Temulun and Leliana moving to engage the guards and lighting leaping from Morrigan's fingers, jumping between the men like a living thing.

But most of his attention was locked upon Rendon Howe as Talia danced back, drawing him away from the other combat, her eyes cutting briefly to Fergus as she maneuvered Howe between them.

"So much for the legendary Cousland honor, eh?" Rendon spat, dividing his glare between them. Coming from a man who had sent armed soldiers to kill a sleeping woman and her child, the words didn't move Fergus, but he saw Talia hesitate, then step back.

"He's yours," she told him, her gaze flickering toward the others, then back, a faint nod telling Fergus that there would be no interference from that direction. She had hungered for this moment for nearly a year, and now she was surrendering her vengeance to him.

Howe clearly believed it was a trick, but he had little choice but to face Fergus as he moved in. He'd trained for most of his life with sword and shield, but shields were rarely used by the Chasind. Temulun fought with sword and axe, and Fergus had learned from him; the wickedly hooked beak of the axe in his off hand could snag an opponent's weapon or cleave to the bone. Howe fought with sword and dagger, but it was plain that he'd been letting others do his fighting for him lately, and his attempts to attack quickly shifted to defensive tactics as Fergus pressed him relentlessly.

"Shall I tell you how your brat died?" Howe gasped, barely managing to block the axe. "How your whore begged for his life?" Fergus didn't waste breath replying to the desperate taunt, and the last word twisted into a scream as his sword bit deep into Howe's left shoulder. The dagger clattered to the stones, and Howe backed away, his rat's eyes darting past Fergus. The sounds of combat from that direction had ceased, and the results were evidently not in the Arl's favor; with a snarled oath, he hurled his sword at Fergus and turned to run. Fergus ducked away from the thrown blade easily, hearing a strangled cry; by the time he turned back, Howe was face to face with Talia, his bulging eyes inches from hers, her blade protruding from his back just below his ribs.

"Oswyn Sigard sends his regards," she told him calmly, twisting the sword as she pulled it free. Howe collapsed to the floor with a scream, blood staining his lips and pouring between his fingers as he clutched at his gut.

"Maker spit on you!" he coughed, staring up at her with hate filled eyes, even as the fire in them dimmed and the blood beneath him grew from a pool to a lake. "I...deserved... _more_!"

Talia said nothing, watching dispassionately as the life left him, his head lolling to the side, sightless eyes fixed on a wall, the sneer still afixed to his lips.

"Wynne was right," she said softly. "It didn't change anything. They're still dead."

"But he can't hurt anyone else," Fergus told her, sheathing his weapons and moving to her side. "Justice," he said, reaching out a hand to tip her eyes to him, "not vengeance."

She nodded somberly. "I thought you should be the one to do it," she said. "Oren...Oriana...I'm sorry, but when he tried to run, I -"

"It's all right," he stopped her gently. "He's dead. That's all that really matters." That they had both played a role in it seemed fitting to him, though he would have taken the full burden onto himself, had he been able.

She rested her forehead against his briefly, closing her eyes, but when she opened them, she was all business again. "No," she disagreed. "All that matters is that the mage is dead."

"Most dead," Morrigan told her, nodding toward the corpse on the floor...one of several.

Talia nodded. "Everyone all right?" she asked, her gaze sweeping over each of them, staying on Leliana as the bard moved to her and hugged her tight.

"It is done," Temulun announced, looking down at Howe's corpse with grim satisfaction, turning his hand palm up to display the scar there. Fergus did the same, remembering the flare of pain as he'd drawn the knife across his hand, the blood that had dripped from it, mingling on the ground with Temulun's as the oath had been made so many months ago. "The blood-debt is paid."

"Thank you, my brother," Fergus told him, pushing back the tears that wanted to rise. Now was not the time to sort through his emotions. He could grieve for those who remained dead once they were back at Eamon's estate. Right now, getting Anora away from here was the most important thing.

Leaving Howe's body where it lay, they returned to where they'd left Oswyn and the rest. "How do we do this?" he asked Talia, glancing around at the motley bunch, most of whom still looked to be barely in condition to walk, let alone fight.

It was Leliana who spoke up. "We still wear Howe's colors," she said. "If we are stopped, we can tell them that we are moving the prisoners on his orders. Act as though we have every right to be here, and very few will question us."

Fergus looked to Talia, who shrugged. "It's as good as anything I've got," she told him. "I've had my fill of fighting today." She looked as drained as he felt, which likely meant that willpower alone was keeping her focused and moving.

Convincing some of the young men they'd rescued to leave behind the weapons they had claimed was difficult, but maintaining the deception would be all but impossible if the 'prisoners' were armed. They finally managed to get them all up the stairs and into Howe's quarters.

"Wait here until we have released the Queen," Talia instructed Alistair, Temulun and Morrigan. "I'll send Leli back for you when we're ready." Fergus, Talia and Leliana moved swiftly along the corridors until they once more reached Anora's cell. The bard had accompanied them in case more mundane locks lay behind the magic, but it proved to be an unnecessary precaution. Fergus blinked in surprise when the door swung open to reveal what at first glance appeared to be another of Howe's hirelings.

"Aren't you a little short for a guard?" Talia quipped, and the armor did indeed look odd on Anora's petite frame, but the Queen was unruffled.

"Erlina smuggled it in to me," she explained. "It is imperative that I not be recognized, even by my father's supporters. They would seek to return me to him." She dropped her eyes. "I...suspect that I would not long survive that return."

The admission clearly hurt her deeply. "We will keep you safe, Your Majesty," he told her.

Blue eyes lifted to him, widening in surprise. "Fergus Cousland? Maker's Breath, we thought you dead at Ostagar!" Her gaze shifted to Talia, recognition touching her expression. "And you are -"

"Warden-Commander Talia Cousland, Your Majesty," his sister replied, bowing to the Queen as Leliana ghosted back the way they had come to signal the rest to advance. "We should go quickly. Rendon Howe is dead, and we've a number of folk that want to get back to their families."

Anora looked past her to the rescued hostages being led toward them; her face paled, then set in lines of anger. "This was done in my name," she murmured. "No longer."

"We end it at the Landsmeet, Your Majesty," Fergus promised her, staying beside her as Talia and Alistair led the way toward the main doors. He saw his sister's step falter an instant before she snapped, "Visors down!" in a low voice. He reacted without question, dropping the visor on his own helmet and Anora's just before they stepped into the entry hall and found themselves facing Ser Cauthrien and a full score of the palace guard.

"Grey Wardens, you are under arrest for attacking the Arl of Denerim, and -" The knight's words trailed off as the hostages stumbled into view, looking fearfully at her. Howe must have gotten a messenger out of the dungeon, Fergus realized with a sinking feeling.

"I killed Rendon Howe." Talia's voice rang out defiantly, and she faced the woman who had been her hero without a trace of fear. "And I released the nobles that he's been holding hostage and torturing. I trust you recognize the son of Bann Sigard, the brother of Bann Alfstanna?" She glanced over her shoulder, then back to Cauthrien, whose looked stunned. "Are you going to tell me you didn't know they were here?"

"I did not," Cauthrien replied grimly, and Fergus felt a surge of hope that was quickly dashed as the knight shook her head, her expression one of regretful resolve, "but the place for this to be settled was in court. I cannot ignore the murder of Arl Howe."

"Like you ignored the murders of my family?" Talia inquired bitterly, then nodded. "Very well, then. I surrender, but only if you let the others go."

"Talia, no!" Leliana was clearly ready to fight, but Talia stopped her.

"It's all right," she said calmly. "I did what I came here to do." Her eyes never left the bard, but it was Fergus that she was speaking to, and it wasn't killing Howe that she was speaking of. Getting Anora to safety was the priority. With her support at the Landsmeet, along with the nobles who would likely be swayed by the evidence of Howe's atrocities, they could wrest power from Loghain. Without her - "If I surrender without a fight, lives will be saved," Talia went on, turning back to Ser Cauthrien. "That used to be something that mattered to you."

"It still does," the knight replied quietly. Her doubts were writ large on her face, but her unswerving loyalty to Loghain was as widely known as her skill with her blade, and Fergus was unsure just what to expect until she nodded. "All right, you and the other Warden. The rest may go in peace."

Alistair stepped up without hesitation as Talia turned, again looking at Leliana, again speaking to Fergus. "It's up to you now," she said calmly. "The Landsmeet. Make it count." As she leaned down to kiss the bard, Fergus felt his fingers tighten on the hilt of his sword, felt Anora's hand on his arm.

Leliana drew back from the kiss, one hand brushing tenderly over Talia's cheek before her blue eyes grew icy as they fixed on Ser Cauthrien. "If any harm comes to them, there will be no place in Thedas you can hide," she promised.

"My lady, any who seek to harm them will have to pass me first," Cauthrien replied earnestly, but Talia snorted.

"Unless Loghain tells you otherwise, you mean?" she asked, her words heavy with scorn. Cauthrien flinched visibly at the taunt, offering no rebuttal as Talia and Alistair moved to stand before her, hands held out.

The knight shook her head. "I won't shackle you," she said, looking to the rest of them as she added, "Go. Now."

The soldiers stepped aside as they moved to the door, but Fergus kept his hands close to his weapons until they were past the gate of the estate and on the streets, murmurs of surprise rising from passers-by as they passed and the bedraggled young nobles were recognized.

"They'll be taken to Fort Drakon," Anora told Fergus, keeping the visor on her helmet lowered. "After we prevail at the Landsmeet, I will order their immediate release." That had undoubtedly been Talia's intent, but Leliana shook her head.

"If your father cannot be trusted not to harm his own daughter, what might he do to those he truly considers his foes?" she demanded. "I will not wait for the Landsmeet. We free them tonight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I passed a kidney stone once, and that little sucker moved a hell of a lot more easily than this chapter. A big part of it was trying to get back into the groove after close to two years of down time. No major dramas this time, just a very busy life...but a good kind of busy, so I won't complain.
> 
> The other handicap was trying to close up the numerous gaping logic holes that existed in this part of the game without opening up too many others. Questions like: where the hell do the prisoners that you release go and how do they get out of the estate on their own? What kind of a freak has the door to the dungeons in his bedroom? How did Cauthrien know that Howe was dead? I think I managed to address those.
> 
> I added a few things, like the interaction between Alistair, Morrigan and Irminric, along with a few extra nobles being held hostage, since I didn't see Howe stopping with one or two.
> 
> I opted to leave out other things. It was tempting to let them find Vaughan in the dungeons, just for the conversation that would have ensued between him and Fergus, but when it got down to it, I really couldn't think of any plausible reason for Howe to have kept him alive, and the chapter was already getting long. Soris was left out for much the same reason.
> 
> Killing Howe turned out to be surprisingly anticlimactic, though there really wasn't a lot of time right then for a lot of emotional exposition, anyway. I'll spend a bit of time inside Talia's head in the next chapter. Hopefully, getting this one done will get things moving more quickly, as will the fact that I came up with an alternative scene to write while the Alienage/Tevinter Slaver takedown is going on.
> 
> In addition, unless someone can remind me why it was necessary to run all the way to Redcliffe, then turn and run all the way back, we're going to skip that and just go from the Landsmeet to the darkspawn moving on Denerim.


	60. Unexpected Assistance

Alistair had never been arrested before. He didn't like it.

Granted, their status as so-called outlaws had been designated by the man who had murdered the rightful king and usurped the throne, and they had been imprisoned for killing the man who had kidnapped the Queen and Maker only knew how many other nobles and murdered even more, but it was still hard to suppress the reflexive shame as they were led into Fort Drakon, stripped of their weapons and armor, hands shackled behind their backs.

Heads turned, the expressions of the guards they passed ranging from impassive to speculative to openly hostile. Talia strode beside him, head high and her features stony, giving no sign that she noticed the scrutiny. Ser Cauthrien led the contingent of soldiers who escorted them; her features remained composed, but she wouldn't look at either of them; she and Talia hadn't spoken since the shackles had been applied.

When they entered the cell block, one of the two guards started forward with a gleam in his eye that Alistair didn't care for in the least. "You got 'em, Ser!"

"At ease, Lieutenant," the knight instructed him in a level voice, but he didn't seem to be listening.

"My brother died at Ostagar, you pieces of shit," he growled, stepping close, the sardines he'd evidently had for lunch heavy on his breath. "I've been waiting close to a year for this."

"Lieutenant!" The rebuke in Cauthrien's sharp tone was clear. "Stand ... down." She waited until his gaze shifted to her before continuing, her words measured. "The prisoners are not to be harmed in any way. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Ser." The response was sullen, but he didn't look inclined to disobey. Alistair let out the breath he'd been holding as the soldier and his sardines backed off to a less fragrant distance, still glowering at them. Talia met the glare calmly as they were led into one of the cells.

"The trial will likely be delayed until after the Landsmeet," Ser Cauthrien informed them as she unlocked the iron manacles.

"There will be a trial after the Landsmeet," Talia agreed calmly, rubbing at her wrists. "But it won't be ours. What do you think the Bannorn will do when they find out what Loghain and Howe have done?"

The knight's lips thinned, but she said nothing.

"You didn't know," Talia asked as Cauthrien left the cell, "did you?"

"I still don't," Cauthrien replied, her voice terse, still refusing to meet Talia's challenging gaze.

"Yes, you do," Talia countered, stepping up to the bars, her eyes steady on the older woman.

Again, Cauthrien did not respond, but her mask of composure wavered visibly in the instant before she turned away and left.

"Was it really a good idea to push her like that?" Alistair asked.

"She's not known for having a temper," Talia replied, staring after the knight for a moment before turning to face him. "Her loyalty to Loghain is strong, but she's no idiot and, unlike him, I don't think she's lost her mind. You saw her face when she saw the nobles that Howe had been holding."

He nodded. The knight's shock had seemed genuine enough. "How are you doing?"

"About Howe, you mean?" The smile she gave him was wan, her eyes bemused. "All these months wanting him dead, and now that he is ..." She trailed off, shrugged. "My family wasn't the only one he'd wronged by a long shot. We got the Queen away, saved the ones we could, and he'll never hurt anyone else. That's what matters right now." Her smile turned wry at the edges. "Guess I'm growing up, eh?"

"You and me both," he agreed softly, thinking back to when they had first met at Ostagar. He honestly hadn't expected her to survive, and the notion that he might ever be anything but a very junior Grey Warden had never crossed his mind. Of course, the idea that they would wind up imprisoned and labeled as traitors hadn't been anywhere in his expectations, either, but still ...

He glanced warily toward the two remaining guards; the one whose brother had died at Ostagar was watching them like a mabari eyeing a leg of mutton, likely praying they'd try to escape.

"Do you think the others will ..." He pitched his voice low, trailing off meaningfully.

Talia understood. "Leliana will," she said somberly, keeping her tone similar to his. "That's one of the reasons I was trying to get through to Cauthrien. She's likely our best chance of getting out of here without a fight."

"But if all we have to do is wait for the Landsmeet -"

Talia shook her head. "You know what Leliana's been through. She's not going to risk the same happening to us. Besides," she continued, her expression growing grimmer, "Loghain may be crazy, but he's not stupid. Once he realizes that Anora and the others escaped, he's going to know that the nobles are going to remove him for what he and Howe have done. He might be crazy enough to think that killing us - you, specifically - before the Landsmeet will leave them no other options for the throne, or he may just want us dead badly enough that he doesn't give a damn." She paused briefly before giving voice to the words that he'd really, _really_ been hoping she wasn't going to say:

"Either way, I'd give better than even odds that he's going to order us executed without a trial."

* * *

_Duty. Honor. Loyalty._

The words sounded in Cauthrien's mind with each step, like a cadence. They were the cornerstones that she had built her life upon, the foundation of who she was … and they were crumbling beneath her like sand.

Loghain Mac Tir looked up as she entered the study, and she was startled anew by how much her commander had aged since Ostagar. The lines of his face had grown more prominent, his deepset eyes seemed sunken into his skull and alternately hollowed with resignation or burning with something unsettlingly close to madness. She had no idea how long it had been since he had slept.

"Well?" he demanded curtly.

"The two Wardens have been taken to Fort Drakon," she reported, trying to sound matter-of-fact about it.

As she'd expected, he scowled. "Just the Wardens?"

"They surrendered without a fight, on the condition that we let those with them go free," Cauthrien replied, meeting his irritated gaze calmly. He was the one who had taught her never to second guess once she had set a course, and she had chosen the right one in this case. Or at least, the best choice available to her.

He straightened from the desk he'd been bent over. "Their allies are no less guilty of treason!" he growled, his fist slamming into the oaken surface, sending papers fluttering. "When did we begin allowing criminals to dictate the terms of their arrest?"

She didn't flinch. "I'd have lost a dozen men, maybe more, if it had come to fighting," she told him. Even knowing that it was coming, his scornful look cut her to the quick. There had been a time not so very long ago when his approval had been the thing that she sought above any other honor; now, she almost feared knowing what it might take her to earn it once more.

He did not reprimand her for her caution, however. Perhaps it was a tacit admission on his part that he once would have shared her regard for the lives under her command, or perhaps he simply no longer cared to waste his breath on her.

"Howe?" Just the one word, but she knew what he was asking.

"Dead." She couldn't make herself feign regret at the news. "We found his body in the dungeons." She uttered the last word deliberately, silently begging him to look surprised, to at least attempt to feign ignorance, but he simply nodded. "Talia admitted to killing him."

If the word 'dungeons' had failed to elicit a reaction, Talia's name succeeded: the grey eyes turned as hard and cold as steel, and thin lips curled in a sneer. "She's added another murder to her crimes, then."

"She's barely more than a child," Cauthrien protested, "and she saw Howe's men kill her family -"

"Bryce Cousland was a traitor!" Loghain snarled, but he did not quite meet her eyes as he spoke. He didn't believe it now, if he ever had.

"And what was Rendon Howe?" she demanded, long suppressed frustration finally boiling up. "Shall I tell you what we found in his dungeons, or do you already know? Men – _Fereldans_ – tortured and starved, their bodies thrown into piles like refuse!"

The stench of the place had been overwhelming, the sight of the damages inflicted on the corpses they found even more so; more than one of the contingent that had accompanied her below had lost the battle with nausea, but Cauthrien had gritted her teeth and forced herself to look, to smell, to _see_. She'd seen their faces at court for years, but she'd barely been able to recognize some beneath the ravages that had been inflicted on them. "Even the ones the Wardens brought out looked more dead than alive: the son of Bann Sigard, the brother of Bann Eremon – Maker's blood, the man is a _templar_ , ser! The Chantry -"

"What of my daughter?"

"What?" The question, spoken as if he had not even heard what she had been saying, caught her off guard.

"Your Queen," he reminded her pointedly – needlessly. "Anora no longer felt safe in the palace, and had been staying at the Arl of Denerim's estate. Did you find her there?"

She stared at him in disbelief. Anora had loathed Rendon Howe, would no more have stayed willingly under his roof than she would have bedded down with vipers. Cauthrien hadn't even seen her since -

_No. Maker, no._

Since she had gone to confront Howe and Loghain had kept Cauthrien from following.

"She was not there," she managed, forcing the words from a mouth gone as dry as paper, "and none of the surviving guards mentioned -"

"They killed her as well, then," Loghain cut her off, his expression bleak, his eyes staring past her, fixed in the middle distance.

She shook her head, cold dread knotting in her guts. "We found no body, ser. Perhaps she hid." _Or escaped,_ she added silently, wondering if it had been the Grey Wardens that the Queen would have sought to escape, or her 'host'.

"If she was not there, she is dead," he grated out, his face set in planes of stone, as implacable as it had been at Ostagar. "The Grey Wardens are responsible for her death, just as they were responsible for the death of Cailan." And still, he would not meet her eyes. How could he be so sure she was dead unless -

_Maker, please, no._

"Talia would not have done that," she replied, her voice steady only with focused effort. If anyone had killed the Queen, it had been Rendon Howe … and Loghain knew it.

_What have you done?_

"You know her that well, do you?" he challenged her harshly. This was the first time she had disagreed with him so openly, disobeyed even an implicit order, and it clearly angered him.

"I believe I do," she said. Initially, she had thought the Cousland heir a girl maddened by grief, driven by the need for revenge and manipulated by the Wardens for their own ends, but today she had looked into the clear eyes of a woman and a warrior, steady and sure and afire with a righteous anger at the atrocities that Rendon Howe had committed, certain that the path she walked was the right one. It was a look that Cauthrien had recognized, though it was for damn certain she wouldn't see it if she looked in a mirror right now. "She is honorable, and no less a patriot of Ferelden than her mother and father were. Bryce Cousland played no role in King Cailan's death, and his daughter would not have harmed the Queen." It was farther than she had ever gone in speaking to him. She had kept her doubts tightly leashed, but if Anora was truly dead, and she knew that Talia Cousland would not have committed such a heinous act ... She had noticed the Queen's absence, accepted Loghain's vague answers that his daughter was "indisposed".

_What did I allow you to do?_

Anger flashed anew in grey eyes, but this time, she recognized it for the diverting tactic that it was, and part of her heart died in her chest. "Bryce Cousland was -"

"He was the Teryn of Highever, of a line unbroken since the days of Calenhad," she cut him off, fire rising in her voice, "and one who fought bravely, his wife alongside him, to free Ferelden from Orlesian rule. They both deserved a fair trial to test the truth of Howe's accusations; instead, he slaughtered them and all others in Highever who might have spoken in their defense! And Talia was correct: he never would have dared if he had thought that he would be justifying his actions before the King." Again, she desperately hoped for an explanation, a justification, anything but the conclusions that she was reaching.

_If his own daughter, why not Cailan? Why not Bryce Cousland, Eamon Guerrin, any of the others?_

Instead, he gave her a look of searing contempt. "I ought to have you imprisoned alongside them!" he snapped, turning his back on her. "You are dismissed. Get out of my sight, and have Captain Kylon report to me immediately."

Numbly, she offered a crisp salute to his back and left the study. She found Kylon in the barracks. "The Regent wants to speak with you in his study immediately, Captain."

If the doleful-faced man found the instructions odd, he gave no sign of it, saluting her as precisely as she had Loghain and striding back the way she had come. An honorable man, and a good soldier, it seemed likely that he would take her place at Loghain Mac Tir's right hand.

She went to her own quarters, closed the door and stood, staring around her. A bed made tightly enough to bounce a sovereign off of; a chair and desk, the inkwell neatly capped. The locker at the foot of the bed, her cloak hanging from a hook on the wall.

Nothing else. Her life was not in this room. She had no life outside of the one that had been given to her by the man who had just sent her away, the man who had taught her the meaning of the ideals that she lived by ... the man who had cast all of these ideals into the wind.

_Duty. Honor. Loyalty._

To Loghain, or to Ferelden?

* * *

Talia paced the confines of their tiny cell, trying to think … trying _not_ to think.

Could it really end like this?

After the many times they had stared death in the face and escaped, it was difficult to conceive, but her words to Alistair had been based on cold calculation. Loghain had abandoned Cailan to certain death, had given his own daughter into Howe's custody, knowing what the man was capable of. If he had been willing to sacrifice those he had truly cared about on the altar of his ambition, he was unlikely to shrink from ridding himself from the pair who had actively opposed him. The only real question was whether he was mad enough to believe that killing them before the Landsmeet would help him, or whether he knew that all hope of pacifying the Bannorn was likely lost and felt that he had nothing left to lose by killing them in revenge. The odds of either one of these being the case seemed all too likely.

She didn't want to die. Not by Loghain's hand, and not by the Archdemon. A year ago, she would have welcomed death, had courted it on numerous occasions, but the grief that had driven her then had mellowed, the gaping wound left by the loss of her family healed over into a scar that still ached at times, but was no longer intolerable.

She wanted to live. Wanted to take Leliana back to Highever, to that sunny mountain meadow. Wanted to rebuild the Grey Wardens alongside Alistair. Wanted to see Fergus as King, raising children of his own that would help him to heal from the loss of Oriana and Oren.

She had accepted the bitter knowledge that she might die fighting the Archdemon, might in fact be killed fighting the darkspawn without ever getting close to the Old God who commanded them, but at least that would be a life given for a purpose, a worthwhile cause. Being executed by a madman would serve no purpose at all, unless their deaths further solidified the opposition to Loghain, though any who still supported him after his crimes to date came to light were likely as mad as he was.

"Stop your damned pacing," one of the guards barked from their station. She glanced toward them; the speaker was the same one who had been keen for revenge when they had first been brought in.

"Come in here and make me," she challenged him, continuing her path back and forth, letting her boots ring against the stone. For all the hardness of his words, he was visibly soft from years of sitting on his ass guarding prisoners behind bars or in chains, his face puffy and florid from drink. Even without their weapons and armor, she and Alistair could take the pair of them.

He looked more than willing to be baited, but the other one spoke up before he had taken two steps toward the cell. "You know what Ser Cauthrien said, Daggett. You really want to be cleaning the middens until you retire?"

"Might be worth it," Daggett growled, looking at her hungrily. She returned the look with as much insolence as she could muster, silently begging him to open the cell door, but after a long moment, he spun and stalked back to his stool. "I'll just have to settle for watching you dance at the end of a rope," he taunted as he sat.

She might be able to goad him by taunting him in turn with his brother's death at Ostagar, but she couldn't make herself do it. Granted, he was a fool who had swallowed Loghain's flimsy lies, but his brother had likely fought and died bravely. She wouldn't cheapen that by saying otherwise.

She moved to where Alistair was sitting, his back against the wall, and slid down the stones to settle beside him.

"Thank you," he said in a low voice. "I didn't want to say anything, but it was getting on my nerves, too."

"Sorry," she murmured, tipping her head back against the wall with a sigh.

He shook his head. "It's all right. Maker knows, we've got reason to be anxious, but … were you really trying to get him in here? I'm pretty sure he wouldn't flinch at gutting either of us, or both of us, for that matter."

She snorted. "You honestly think he could touch either of us before we laid him out on the floor?" she asked. "We've got to get out of here, Alistair, and soon." There were no windows to judge the passing of time, but nightfall could not be long away.

"What's the rush? I'll admit I'm not looking forward to dinner, but -" He stopped, regarding her closely. "You don't think she'd -"

"I'm almost sure of it," Talia sighed. "With you and me gone, I don't think she'll listen to anyone else. What they did to her in Orlais … she never forgets it."

"Can't say that I blame her for that," Alistair replied grimly, "though it doesn't look like they're planning anything like that for us."

"If they were, they'd have put us in separate cells," she told him, "but Leli doesn't know that. She'll be coming, likely with Zevran."

"The pair of them aren't going to have any trouble getting in," he observed.

"Maybe not." He was right. She knew it, but she'd seen what they would have to pass through to reach this point: the locked doors, the guards, the Mabari. One moment of bad luck, and her lover would either be dead or in a cell of her own, with guards who might or might not obey orders that she not be harmed. Her hands curled into helpless fists, her pulse pounding in her temples. They had to get out.

"Neither of them are fools, Talia," Alistair said, trying to be reassuring, though she could see the echo of her own rising fear in the worry in his eyes. "They – wait, someone's coming."

She had already turned her head at the sound of booted feet approaching, watching the two guards jump to their feet and stand at attention as the door to the cell block opened and a man with a captain's insignia on his pauldrons strode in, accompanied by a man and woman bearing lieutenant's marks.

"Captain Kylon," Daggett greeted the newcomer with a sloppy salute that was mirrored a bit more crisply by his comrade.

The captain acknowledged the salute with a nod, his face impassive. "You both are relieved of duty."

"Ser?" Daggett's florid face creased in confusion. "We're not due to be off for three more hours."

"Your orders have changed," Captain Kylon replied. "The regent wants to question these two, and I'm certain that your commander has a better use for you than guarding an empty cell block. Report to him for your new assignment."

Talia glanced at Alistair as the two soldiers saluted again and departed, but he was watching the captain with an odd expression. "I know you," he said, coming to his feet as the man approached their cell. "You were the Sergeant in the marketplace!" He went on in answer to the look that Talia gave him as she stood, "After you saw Howe and, well -" he trailed off with an awkward shrug.

"Went berzerk?" she finished for him with a grimace. Not one of her finer moments, and one that could have ended in disaster if not for the nameless officer who had let himself be used as a hostage to cover their escape. He had a name now, and she gave him a measuring glance. "Captain Kylon now, is it?" she asked warily. If he served Loghain …

"Aye," the soldier confirmed. "Earned myself quite the promotion that day … one that I'm about to piss right out the window," he added with a wry twist of his lips as he unlocked the door to the cell.

Talia exchanged a glance with Alistair, afraid to hope. "So, Loghain doesn't want to talk to us?" Alistair asked cautiously.

"Oh, he does," Kylon replied with a laugh, "but with only two Grey Wardens in Ferelden and a Blight boiling up in the south, it's my thought that you've more important things to do than chat with a madman. They're with me, by the way," he went on, tipping his head toward the pair who had accompanied him. "Lieutenants Mhairi and Trystan."

"Warden-Commander," the one named Mhairi, a tall young woman a bit older than Talia herself, greeted her with a respectful nod.

"Pleased to meet you all," Talia replied bemusedly. "So … this is a rescue?" Not that she was complaining, but she couldn't help but be wary; what if Loghain's plan was to have them killed trying to escape?

"It's intended to be," Kylon said with a nod, "though I'll admit there's a better than even chance that we'll all be cellmates before the night is out. Or dead."

"It's a risk we're willing to take, Warden-Commander," Trystan said firmly. "Grey Wardens are what you need to fight a Blight, and Loghain's getting crazier every day. No one's seen the Queen for weeks, and the things that Teyrn Howe – Arl Howe," he corrected hastily when he saw the look on Talia's face. "The things they've done … it can't be right. They say you're King Maric's son?" This last was directed to Alistair, who squirmed visibly at the look of hope that accompanied it.

"I am," he confirmed, looking to Talia for guidance before continuing, "It is Arl Eamon's intention to challenge Loghain's rule at the Landsmeet." That was vague enough, if their would-be rescuers turned out to be a trap designed to find out what they knew.

"Thank the Maker!" Mhairi said fervently.

"Waste more time talking, and you may get the chance to thank Him in person," Kylon reminded them pointedly, holding out shackles and chains with an apologetic look. "Wardens, if this is going to work, you'll need to wear these."

"And if we have to fight?" Talia wanted to know, still not quite ready to believe fully in their good fortune.

"You can keep the key," Kylon told her, "and we'll cuff you in front, but if it comes to fighting, we're likely all dead, anyway. Our best chance is to look convincing enough that we don't have to fight."

"Our weapons and armor?" Talia had to ask, but she wasn't surprised when the captain shook his head.

"Too big a risk. It's likely locked away in the armory, and I'd have a hard time coming up with a plausible reason for retrieving it," he said. "Come out on top at the Landsmeet, and you can get it back easy enough."

Talia nodded, not liking it. The armor they'd worn into Howe's estate had been borrowed from Eamon's guards, their own being a better quality than an average mercenary would be able to afford and likely to draw notice, but Starfang and Duncan's sword and dagger would not be easily replaced, even temporarily, and if they couldn't find them after the Landsmeet -

She sighed and held out her hands. If they couldn't find them after the Landsmeet, they'd make do with whatever they did find. "Let's go."

As promised, Kylon shackled their hands in front, pressing the key into Talia's hand when he was done. "Can you reach the keyhole?" he asked, watching as she demonstrated. "Good. They're well oiled, so unlocking them shouldn't be -"

"Hold, all of you."

Kylon froze, and Talia felt her heart sink as Cauthrien stepped through the doorway, the Summer Sword drawn. She had moved so quietly that none of them had heard her approach; she could likely cut down both of Kylon's lieutenants before any of them could draw their weapons, and a shout from her would have a score of reinforcements on the way.

The knight edged into the room, blue-grey eyes seeking out Talia. Her face was pale and drawn, but she held the sword steady on Kylon and the other two. "Queen Anora," she said. "Was she at Howe's estate? Did you -" She broke off, her mouth working soundlessly.

"Did we kill her?" Talia finished for her scornfully. "Is that what _he_ told you?"

"Did you find her?" Cauthrien pressed. "Does she live?" When Talia simply regarded her with narrowed eyes, she blurted, "If she lives, tell me … please?"

Briefly, Talia considered staying silent, but Anora should be safely behind the walls of Eamon's estate by now. She glanced at Alistair, received a shrug and a nod. "She's the reason we went there in the first place. Howe – and Loghain – were holding her prisoner there." She waited for the protest, but none came. "She's alive."

"Swear it," the knight persisted. From the corner of her eye, Talia saw Trystan's hand inching toward the hilt of his sword. Evidently, Cauthrien did not, which meant that she likely was as badly shaken as she appeared to be.

She met the older woman's gaze with a steady look of her own. "Queen Anora lives and is safe," she said in a level voice. "I swear it on my family's name."

Cauthrien's eyes searched hers for a moment longer, then she dropped her head, her shoulders slumping as she released a shuddering breath. "Thank you," she said in a low voice without looking up. Trystan's hand was on his sword, but Talia stopped him with a silent shake of her head. She'd had ample opportunity to summon more guards, if that had been her intent. They all waited, watching as the knight slowly lifted her head again, looking to Kylon now.

"You intend to free the Wardens?" she asked him quietly.

"That's the plan," he replied, wary eyes on her still-drawn sword, hand remaining poised near the hilt of his own weapon.

A long moment passed, then another, before Cauthrien nodded slowly and returned the massive blade to its sheath with a sigh. "Well, then," she responded, squaring her shoulders resolutely, jaw set and eyes shadowed, "we'd best get on with it before he realizes that you're not bringing them to the palace."

* * *

Night had fallen, and the outbuildings and alleys that surrounded the approach to Fort Drakon offered any number of concealing shadows. Getting into the fortress itself would be a more formidable task, but it was one that Leliana _would_ accomplish.

It had been all that she could do to restrain herself until after the sun had set, and all the assurances given by Fergus, Anora, Eamon and the others about the 'honor' of the Fereldans who guarded Fort Drakon had done nothing to quiet her fears. Because she _knew_ what happened to men and women who were given absolute power over the lives of others: it made them monsters, or it made them numb. To the ones who had tormented her for so many weeks, she had been something less than human: an animal to be made to do its master's will, at best; at worst, a toy to be used for whatever their twisted whims deemed entertaining. Those who had not participated had looked on with empty eyes, or looked away and said nothing, done nothing. She would not permit Talia and Alistair to be subjected to even a single day of such treatment.

She moved, silent and unseen, from shadow to shadow, armed with daggers, poisons, garrotes, stilettos; afire with a purpose more deadly than any that had driven her in the days that she had played the Game. There would be no playful flirtings, no distracting conversation, no seduction; there would be only death, swift and sure, for any who crossed her path this night.

Another shadow glided at her side: the only one capable of matching her stealth, Zevran had been wise enough to not attempt to soothe her with hopeful words. He knew as well as she did what depths men could sink to, knew firsthand what Loghain Mac Tir was capable of. He drew her attention with a barely audible hiss, then tipped his head, silently pointing out a bakery that was located near the main gate to Fort Drakon. The shop was dark and still, the narrow alley between it and the cobbler next door offering a place to watch unseen, time the patrols along the top of the wall, pick the place and time to go over. She wrapped herself in the shadows, one with the darkness as she moved along the wall of the building and slipped around the corner into the alley, Zevran joining her with no less stealth moments later.

The guards were active tonight, moving briskly along the wall, stopping frequently to peer into the night; undoubtedly, they were expecting a rescue attempt to be mounted, fancied themselves on alert and prepared for such an eventuality, but the pair hidden in shadows had a hole card that it was highly unlikely their opponents had anticipated.

The faint flutter of wings was audible above, and a silhouette was visible briefly against the moon, ignored by the guards on the wall. The owl winged out of sight, then glided in from the rear of the alley and alighted upon a crate, luminous golden eyes peering at them in the instant before grey feathers shimmered and shifted in a blur the eye could not quite bring into focus.

"Something is afoot," Morrigan whispered. "They have just been brought out of the prison proper, and appear to be bound for the main gate."

"Taking them to the palace, perhaps?" Zevran mused. "How many guards?"

"At present, four," the witch replied, "including the tall wench who arrested them."

Cauthrien MacLean. Leliana could feel Morrigan's eyes on her, schooled her expression to neutrality. "A trap?" she asked the elf. Four guards would be all too easy to deal with once they were away from the fortress; surely they would know this.

"Quite possible," Zevran agreed. "I would prefer stupidity, but we will work with what we are given. Let us observe them for a time."

Morrigan shifted form and winged into the night again, while Leliana and Zevran settled in for a wait that proved to be a short one. Only a few minutes had passed before the heavy portcullis creaked upward and six figures emerged: four in armor surrounding two without. Talia and Alistair appeared unharmed; Leliana could discern no visible injury, and their movements were unimpaired, but the sight of them in chains like common criminals angered her.

The group turned as expected, moving away from Fort Drakon in the direction of the palace. Zevran and Leliana paced them, moving first through the alleys and then over rooftops once they were away from the eyes atop the fortress wall. The four guards, Cauthrien in the point position, moved with appropriate caution, eyes scanning their surroundings as they moved, but they never saw their observers, and if Talia or Alistair suspected their presence or recognized the owl that flew overhead once, they gave no sign.

The streets of Denerim were less populous at night, but still not deserted; the small procession passed more than a few people along the way before they entered an empty stretch of road, the shops to either side darkened, with no lanterns illuminating the street. It was an area where no one with coin – or sense – would venture after sunset, but four armed guards had little to fear from muggers. For Leliana and Zevran, it was the ideal spot for their purpose, and as good an opportunity as they were likely to get.

Quick gestures exchanged in silence established their targets. Zevran would take the one bearing captain's insignia in the rear, then the one on the left. Leliana would kill the one on point, then the soldier on the right. Her eyes were on Cauthrien's visage as she slipped a dagger from its sheath, finding the point of balance as she prepared to throw. This blade had already been coated with a quick-acting poison; even a scratch would be debilitating, likely fatal, but Leliana intended more than a scratch. She would bury it in the bitch's face, through the open visor of her helmet.

"Wait."

The single word from Zevran, breathed as quietly as his warning to her in the elven ruins had been, reached her ears at almost the same moment that she realized that their targets had stopped, the formation disrupted as the individuals changed position and drew closer together, making it hard to identify a target in the darkness. Chains rattled, and seconds later, Talia's voice spoke up, low but clear:

"Leliana, stand down. It's all right."

She remained motionless and silent, watching the indistinct cluster, her heart pounding. Had their presence been detected? Were knives now being held to the Wardens' throats to stay the hands of their rescuers? A single figure separated from the group and stepped away: Talia, wrists free of their shackles, hands held out to demonstrate her liberty.

"Leli, it's all right. Don't hurt any of them."

Still, she hesitated, suspecting a trap. Her eyes flitted from shadow to shadow. Hidden archers? No ... she or Zevran would have seen them. Alistair, also free of his bonds, stepped forward beside Talia, and she decided.

"Stay here," she instructed the elf, sheathing the dagger carefully before descending silently from roof to alley, then stepping from the shadows, looking cautiously from the soldiers, who all stood with hands conspicuously well away from their weapons, to Talia and Alistair. She could see her lover's face clearly now, the expression there the final assurance that she needed. She closed the distance between them, hugging Talia fiercely.

"Did they hurt you?" she demanded, drawing back enough to peer up into the Warden's face, turning her head to scrutinize Alistair, as well. No blood, no bruises.

"No," Talia replied, shaking her head. "We're both fine, love, I promise." The wave of relief that swept through Leliana was powerful enough to make her knees weaken, and she leaned briefly against her lover.

"We need to keep moving." Cauthrien's voice, terse in the darkness.

"She's right." Talia headed off Leliana's sharply worded retort before it could be spoken, her eyes pleading for peace. "Formal introductions can wait until we're back at Eamon's," she went on, a hint of rueful humor touching her expression, "but Alistair tells me you've already met Captain Kylon."

"I ... have." She regarded the man with surprise. "I did not get the chance to give you proper thanks before, and now I owe you another."

"Put in a good word with me to Arl Eamon," Kylon suggested, a wry slant to his mouth. "Assuming we survive this, I'll be in need of employment, as will the others." His tone was light enough, but his eyes were serious; their actions this night would be enough to have them hung as traitors by Loghain.

"You'll have a job," Talia promised him. "Let's move. Zev, stay with us, but stay hidden." Her last words were answered by a shrill nighthawk's cry. If she knew of Morrigan's presence, she gave no indication, but Leliana caught sight of the winged form gliding low over rooftops, keeping to the shadows along their path. Whether Talia knew of her or not, she would be a valuable asset in case of an ambush.

There was little conversation as the small group moved swiftly through the streets, away from the palace now and toward the Arl of Redcliffe's Denerim estate, drawing more than a few curious glances but no interference. The portcullis was down when they reached it, but the guards on duty recognized them, and the heavy gate began to rise as the owl flew over the high walls. Glancing around warily, Talia urged them all forward, but Ser Cauthrien shook her head.

"I have to go back," she said quietly. Leliana's hand went to a dagger, but Talia stepped between them.

"You don't owe him anything," she told the knight.

"I owe him everything," Cauthrien countered. "The truth, most of all. If I had spoken up sooner, at least tried -" She broke off, shook her head. "He's lost the Bannorn, the Landsmeet, but enough nobles will hold to him to make it a bloodbath, if things come to fighting. If I can talk to him, convince him that this madness _is_ madness, with that viper dead, I might be able to end it without a fight."

"Or he might kill you." Talia regarded the older woman worriedly, but Cauthrien just shrugged.

"An appropriate fate for a traitor."

"A traitor to what?" Leliana could not help asking, anger still smoldering in her heart, but the bleakness in the cobalt eyes when they turned to her banked the fires considerably.

"Everything," the knight said simply before looking back to Talia. "I'm sorry we never got the chance to spar again. I would have liked to see how far you've come."

"You'll get the chance after this is all over," Talia promised her.

"Maybe," Cauthrien replied, not looking as though she believed it. "Good luck at the Landsmeet."

They watched her go together. "I'm sorry," Leliana said softly. Even now, a spark of spite lingered that wished the knight nothing but harm for what she had done. She didn't like it, but couldn't seem to extinguish it fully.

"She made her choices," Talia replied. "At least she's trying to make them right." Dark eyes shone a bit too bright in the light from the torches on the walls when she turned, but her face was set in resolve. "Let's get inside. We've got a lot to figure out before the Landsmeet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as entertaining as the various rescues by the companions are in the game, none of them really felt plausible given all that they had to get by to get in, then out again, and the self rescue was no better. Cue the third option, which I've been planning since Chapter 31. Betrayal from inside the ranks really seemed like the only way to believably get them out of Fort Drakon, and Kylon was the man to do it.
> 
> I went ahead & brought in Mhairi here, though she annoyed the hell out of me in Awakenings simply because she was so obviously a Cauthrien Lite. They even had Alix Wilton Regan do her voice, so I guess they just decided that having Cauthrien dead as a possible option in DAO ruled her out as a companion in Awakenings. Not that Mhairi was one for long, but I digress …
> 
> Cauthrien. The way I pictured the character, there was no way that she could have ignored the things that she saw in the Arl of Denerim's estate, and realizing that her inaction might have led to the death of Ferelden's Queen would have been the final push. I actually started the first draft of this chapter with the scene between her and Loghain before deciding that putting it between the Alistair & Talia POV scenes would flow better. But even after helping them escape, her loyalty to Loghain would have compelled her to make him try to see reason, even if it resulted in her death. Haven't decided just yet how that particular chat is going to end. I am inordinately fond of the character, I've got one hell of a cast to keep track of, and it just keeps growing.
> 
> I think that Inquisition had more than a bit of influence as I was writing Leliana's POV. We definitely see a darker edge to her here, a sense of what she is willing to do when her back is to the wall. And she's still a bit jealous of Cauthrien.
> 
> I was tempted to expand Morrigan's presence in the rescue, but it would have drawn things out in an already long chapter, and ultimately, it made more sense for her to remain largely unseen (though the only thing that really tempted me to try a game canon rescue was her in a Chantry robe going on about boils and curses.).
> 
> The next chapter will cover the time period of the Tevinters in the alienage quest, but as I mentioned before, I've decided on an alternative narrative that will take place while that is going on, because the prospect of rehashing that questline was one of the things that had been holding me in stasis for so long.
> 
> And yes, I let Talia and Alistair keep their clothes.


	61. A Political Marriage?

The Landsmeet was tomorrow.

Almost a year since Highever had fallen, the moment was one that had been a long time coming, and now that it was so close, the final hours dragged by like an eternity. Caught in the grip of a restlessness that had no outlet, Fergus prowled the halls of Eamon's Denerim estate like a ghost.

He _felt_ like a ghost in some ways; the confident young noble who had proudly led his family's forces off to battle was as much a memory as his parents, his wife and son, the friends and servants who had been murdered. That young man had been quite content to enjoy the privileges of his rank without being eager to claim the responsibility of power. He'd have been happy if his father had lived to be a hundred, and a part of him had innocently assumed that was what would happen.

That young man was dead; the man who wandered the halls of the mansion today had no more interest in power than he had then, but now he knew that if power was not grasped and held by men of honor, it would be taken and abused by men who had no honor. The man who had murdered his family was dead, the blood debt paid, and tomorrow, he would attempt to unseat a tyrant and claim a throne he had never wanted. If they failed, he would likely be executed, the entire Cousland family recorded in history as traitors to a Ferelden that would be overwhelmed by the Blight with no Grey Wardens to defend it. No pressure there.

In all honesty, though, failure seemed a remote possibility. The families of the prisoners that they had rescued from Howe's dungeons were adding their voices to Eamon's, and now it was known that Highever's heir had survived Ostagar and was the Arl of Redcliffe's choice for the throne. Few, it seemed, had believed the accusations that Howe and Loghain had trumped up against Bryce and Eleanor Cousland; his parents had been both liked and respected among the nobility, an influence that aided their son and his allies now. Messages promising support arrived almost hourly, and Eamon and Teagan were confident that the number would grow when the whole of the Landsmeet heard the list of crimes that could be laid at the feet of Loghain Mac Tir and Rendon Howe.

That didn't mean that they weren't eager for another flaming brand to throw on the fire, however, so when Anora had mentioned the lockdown of the alienage (something that neither Eamon nor Teagan had taken notice of), the supposed plague within and the Tevinter mages who had so graciously offered their aid, they had readily agreed when Talia and Alistair had offered to investigate.

Erlina had come through again, finding a man whose shop backed up to the alienage, and who had been smuggling food in through a tunnel that ran from his basement beneath the wall and came up in the house of the hahren. They'd gone under cover of darkness, in the early hours of the morning. Technically, all legal matters between the members of the nobility were put on hold for the duration of a Landsmeet, and were frequently settled there. Rendon Howe's death, Talia and Alistair's escape from custody, would have in all probability not been granted that customary exception but for the revelations that were more than counterbalancing those supposed crimes. No one had appeared at Eamon's door to demand the surrender of the Grey Wardens, but being caught outside the estate would be an invitation to an arrest they would not be intended to survive.

Fergus found himself a bit miffed that he hadn't even been asked to go, but with his identity and Eamon's intent now widely known, it had been considered too great a risk. He'd watched Talia and her companions making their preparations with a twinge in his chest that he could not deny as jealousy. His little sister didn't need him anymore. She was calm and collected, sure of herself and those that she led, trading jokes with Alistair, Leliana never far from her side.

That at least gave him comfort. Any lingering doubts he might have had regarding the sincerity of the Orlesian's attachment to his sister had vanished after Talia and Alistair's arrest. Leliana had been fully prepared to storm Fort Drakon, immediately and singlehanded; it had taken no small amount of persuasion from Wynne, Zevran and Fergus to convince her to wait until the cover of nightfall.

The defection of Captain Kylon and his two Lieutenants had been a welcome surprise; the addition of Ser Cauthrien to those who had aided in the escape had been nothing less than astounding. The knight's loyalty to Loghain Mac Tir was well known, but her sense of honor had also been indisputable until Ostagar. That she had finally broken with her mentor and commander seemed to Fergus to be the final harbinger of Loghain's fall. He was glad of it for Talia's sake; his sister had idolized the older woman from childhood, and counting her among those who had betrayed Highever had cut deeply.

No word had been received from the knight since she had chosen to return to the regent, nor had there been even a whisper of her fate. Fergus doubted that the news, when it came, would be good; if Loghain had been prepared to sacrifice his own daughter to his madness, he would be unlikely to show mercy to a subordinate who had defied him.

Alive or dead, Ser Cauthrien did not seem to have revealed the secret that she was privy to. While word that Fergus lived had been allowed to circulate, the fact that Anora had been one of those rescued from Howe's clutches was being tightly guarded. Rumors on the street and among the nobility still pondered the Queen's extended absence from public view, and while the palace had issued an official condemnation of the 'murder' of Rendon Howe, no mention had been made of Anora.

The Queen of Ferelden had become Eamon's newest pawn in the Landsmeet, a role that she had accepted with a silent nod, blue eyes distant and dispirited. Nor had she protested at being excluded from the meetings spent endlessly honing strategy and debating what Loghain might do, with opposition to him growing and his options running out. Fergus couldn't blame her; it had been painful to hear the accusations leveled against his parents, even when he had known they weren't true. To be confronted with such irrefutable truth, to discover that the father who had raised her, loved her, had given her up to be killed … he couldn't even begin to imagine how that felt.

Nor could Eamon's attitude be helping. Despite being the brother of Queen Rowan, his views of women and their capabilities were archaic, at best (Fergus couldn't decide if being married to Isolde was cause or effect of those views), and from her arrival, the Arl had treated Anora more as a prize of war than the Queen of Ferelden, even going so far as to imply that she had known about her father's intent to betray Cailan at Ostagar. Fergus had stepped in at that point; there was no evidence to support the contention, nor did he believe that the Arl truly believed it. It was Eamon's way of asserting control over the Queen who was known to have a mind of her own, ensuring that she did not interfere in their plans.

Fergus, however, had no intention of entering a marriage - even one of political expedience - with a bride who had been forced into submission, which was why, despite Eamon's repeated cautions against speaking with Anora alone, he found himself outside her door. One of the two guards - ostensibly placed there for the Queen's protection - announced him, then stood aside to allow him to enter.

The suite that she had been given was considerably larger than the room she had occupied under Howe's imprisonment, but she was scarcely less a prisoner. There were no windows, lest she be spotted by a passerby, and she was permitted to leave her confinement only when it was certain that no guests were expected. Fortunately, the only guards and staff in the estate were still those who had traveled with them from Redcliffe, so there were no daily departures or arrivals to be concerned with.

Anora had risen from her chair, setting aside the book she'd been holding. "Your Majesty," Fergus greeted her with a bow, but she shook her head.

"Don't, please," she murmured. "There is no need for such empty formalities here."

"Far from empty," he told her. "You _are_ Ferelden's Queen."

"Am I?" she responded, bitterness almost lost beneath resignation. "I seem to have surrendered my kingdom to a madman. What right do I have to claim that title?"

"You trusted one whom you should by all rights have been able to trust," Fergus replied. "His choices, his actions are his own, as is his guilt."

"I condoned those choices and actions by my own choice of silence," she countered. "I allowed myself to be made an obedient daughter again, and Ferelden has paid the price." She looked away from him quickly, blue eyes a bit too bright in the light of the lamps. "To what do I owe this visit?" she asked in a tone of forced lightness. "Has your sister returned?"

He shook his head. "Not yet," he replied, trying to keep the worry from his voice. It was barely mid-day, after all, and if anything had gone wrong, surely the myriad eyes and ears about Denerim that now reported to Eamon would have brought word. But he could no more stop being an older brother than he could stop being a Cousland. His little sister might no longer need him to fight her battles for her, but she was no more invincible than their father had been, and no less vulnerable to treachery.

Anora regarded him sympathetically. "She seems to have grown into a formidable fighter," she offered, "and her companions no less so." A wan smile touched her lips. "I remember when Cailan and I visited Highever, how enthralled she was with Ser Cauthrien, though she tried not to show it."

He chuckled at the memory. "Our mother made her promise to behave as a young lady," he told her. "She kept the letter of that promise admirably, but Father told me later that she snuck out in the early mornings to practice with Ser Cauthrien. Weapons only, because her promise was not to don her armor for the duration of your visit. They knew, and let her have that, because she comported herself so well in the daytime."

"Your parents were wise," Anora observed, then, softly, "I have not been kind to her."

It was not Talia that she spoke of. "The ... rumors are well known," he began circumspectly, but she shook her head.

"My mother told me years ago that my father had but one mistress, and her name was Duty," she replied. "He had no time or interest in any other, and my mother never begrudged him that. She understood him, and they loved each other. My jealousy of Cauthrien was for something else entirely."

She turned from him, moving to the bookshelf and slipping the book she'd been reading back among its fellows. "Waste of time," she murmured ruefully. "I'd been sitting turning pages for over an hour, but I could tell you neither its title nor its subject." She turned back around, gesturing to one of the chairs. "Sit, please," she invited him, moving to the chair she'd risen from and settling herself, smoothing her hands over her skirt.

"It's not widely known," she began, "but when my father first brought Cauthrien to Gwaren, it was his thought to train her up as companion and bodyguard to me. Yes," she affirmed with a small laugh at his look of surprise. "Cauthrien MacLean in dress and petticoats, learning courtly etiquette and which was the dessert fork. Even then, she was as tall as many men, and she was all arms and legs." She laughed again, her eyes distant and wistful. "But she had a good heart, and we were friends. I'd never had many." Her shoulders tipped in a minute shrug. "That has not changed," she said simply.

Fergus nodded, feeling a twinge of guilt. As a monarch, Anora had been respected, loved by the people in general, but liked? Too many of the noble ladies her own age had either bedded her husband or hoped to, and her cool reserve fared poorly when viewed alongside Cailan's easy and carefree demeanor. She had always been a solitary figure, and the term 'Ice Queen' had been bandied freely among the sons of the nobility. He had never used the term himself, but he had laughed along with the others when it had been used, knowing full well what his mother would have done, had she heard him. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"There's no need to be," Anora told him matter-of-factly. "My father raised me to be independent ... save for where he was concerned." Her lips quirked at the irony.

"What happened?" Fergus asked her, feeling guilty anew at the curiosity that prompted the question. "With Cauthrien, I mean." That supposed scandal had been titillating the gossips at court for over a decade, and while he'd never given it much credence, it was plain that something stood between Loghain's daughter and his second.

"Her skills manifested," Anora replied. "I'd been learning how to wield weapons since I was a young girl, but she quickly surpassed me in our practice sessions, and my father took notice. He said that she was wasted as a noblewoman's guard and threw her in with the other recruits."

"Ouch." Fergus winced. Even for a man of Loghain's famed bluntness, the assessment seemed a callous dismissal of his own daughter's worth.

"She _was_ good," Anora conceded, "and I might not have minded it over much, except that at the same time, he ended my own weapons training, telling me that I needed to focus my attention on the skills that I would need as Queen. I didn't see much of either of them after that," she admitted. "My weapons training was one of the only times that my father took part in my raising, but he'd found another girl to train up. It was not my mother's place that I felt that Cauthrien had stolen; it was mine."

"One could hardly blame you," Fergus said sympathetically. Bryce Cousland had been a very different sort of father; Fergus couldn't envision him dealing thusly with Talia, but it would have devastated her.

"Perhaps," Anora mused, "but it was nothing that I knew how to express to him. When the rumors that they were lovers began to circulate, I seized upon them as a reason for my anger. Nothing that my father said could dissuade me, and Cauthrien -" She lapsed into silence, her eyes dropping to her lap, hands folded in practiced composure. "She tried once to speak with me. I said ... a good many things that I regret. It was the last time that we spoke beyond what duty required." She sighed, blue eyes meeting his. "I hope that I get the chance to apologize."

"As do I," he said, knowing that she would see any attempt to reassure her as the wishful thinking that it most likely was.

Silence lay between them for several long moments before Anora spoke again. "I can only imagine your relief at discovering that your sister was still alive."

"I hardly dared hope when the first reports began filtering in," Fergus admitted, thinking back to those bleak days when he had believed that he had lost everything. "Once it finally sunk in … I don't know if I was more relieved or terrified. Knowing that she was out there, putting herself in danger, and that I couldn't do anything to protect her, couldn't even make it known that I was alive without putting her at even greater risk." He shook his head slowly. "It was hard. It's still hard. The Landsmeet tomorrow is only another step in her journey; her greatest battle will still lie ahead of her, and I can do nothing." That she had already killed a dragon … _two_ dragons, albeit with assistance each time … was scant comfort. An Archdemon was more than a dragon, and only a Grey Warden could kill it.

"Not nothing," Anora told him. "As King, you will be able to permit Grey Wardens from Orlais and other nations to enter Ferelden to assist your sister and Alistair." Her lips thinned as she went on, "I did attempt to do as much, sending a missive to Celene without telling my father. I thought that once the Grey Wardens were here, he would have to see -" She broke off, her eyes cutting away, then returning to him. "Howe intercepted it," she went on, her voice tight with emotion, "and my father never forgave me for what he considered a betrayal -" Her voice broke again, the tears rising in her eyes, but when Fergus reached out a hand in comfort, she waved it away, coming to her feet.

"I don't understand!" she declared, pacing aimlessly, looking about the room as though she might find her answers there. "How could he trust that conniving, greedy swine? How could he not see what he was doing … what he has done?" She cast a beseeching glance at Fergus. "Is he truly mad?"

"I … don't know," Fergus admitted. He could think of no answer that would be kind at this point; insanity might diminish Loghain's ultimate culpability, but it made him no less of a threat. "Talia and Alistair found communications that may indicate that he believed that Cailan intended to set you aside and marry Empress Celene."

The incredulous look that Anora gave him could not have been feigned, and after a moment, she shook her head slowly. "No. Cailan was impetuous, but he was no fool. He would have known how such an alliance would be received. No." She shook her head again, harder. "He would not have done that to me. We grew up together! He wanted no part of ruling yet; he was happy to let me see to that part, and I … I -" she trailed off, a look of bafflement on her face. "Why would he have even considered it?"

"Some in the bannorn," Fergus elaborated delicately, "believed that the lack of an heir was cause for concern."

Comprehension rippled across her features. "Some?" she asked pointedly, but pressed no further. "And of course, it must be _my_ fault." She sighed. "Perhaps it was. We were more like brother and sister than husband and wife. I let him play the boy, let him take his lovers, because he was not ready for Maric to be gone ..." she hesitated, then admitted, "and because I took pride in ruling as well as any man. Perhaps I should have pressed him harder to do his duty, but he would have grown up eventually. He was such a boy. Such an exuberant, charismatic, foolhardy -" Her mouth soundlessly, tears welling up in blue eyes that looked helplessly to him. "Fergus, as the Maker is my witness, I did not know what my father intended at Ostagar!"

"I know that," Fergus told her without hesitation. "So do Talia and Alistair." So, he suspected, did Eamon, but the Arl wanted the Queen on a tight leash, and the threat of a charge of treason would have accomplished that handily.

It was not, however, what Fergus intended to do. "You are not responsible for your father's crimes," he went on, his voice firm. If the Arl of Redcliffe thought to elevate a puppet king, he would be in for an unpleasant surprise.

Anora searched his face for a long moment, then nodded, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief and breathing deeply, visibly steadying herself. "What will happen to him?" she asked quietly.

"That depends on what happens at the Landsmeet," he replied. There remained a chance, however slim, that the tide could turn against them. "If the choice is mine, I would consider imprisonment or banishment." Either was a risky choice, leaving the chance that the deposed regent could become the focus of a rebellion, but Ferelden owed much to the Loghain Mac Tir of years past. For the memory of that hero, Fergus would take the risk and offer mercy, if he was given the chance. It was what his father would have done.

Anora accepted this with another nod. "And me?" she wanted to know, her azure gaze frank. "I know what Arl Eamon would have, but do you truly wish to be wed to the daughter of the man who conspired to murder your family?"

"You are not your father," he reiterated, then paused to frame his next words. "It is true that a marriage between us will increase the numbers in the Bannorn who accept me as Eamon's choice for King, and that this is Eamon's chief motivation … but it is not mine. I never expected to be Teyrn this young, much less King. I know some things, but mostly I know just how very much I do _not_ know, and quite frankly, the harm that I might do to Ferelden in my ignorance terrifies me." He met her eyes, all too aware of the gamble that he took in baring himself to her thusly. If loyalty to her father won out over the memory of her husband, she could do great damage to their cause, but it was another risk that he felt needed to be taken.

"I doubt that you are so unprepared as you might fear," Anora assured him. "Your father was known as a wise and just man, as well as a compassionate one. I see much of him in you."

"He was wise," Fergus agreed, heartened by her words, though still aware that they might be a ruse. "Wise enough to marry a woman who was as intelligent as she was beautiful and make her his partner in all things. My first wife -" he paused, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. "Oriana was not so formidable as my mother, but she was no mere ornament. If I am to be King, I would have a Queen capable of ruling at my side, as my equal … and if she knew more of the business of governing a kingdom than I do, I would gladly and humbly learn from her."

Eamon would likely be apoplectic, but Anora looked surprised, and pleased, though no less cautious than he felt. "You have been given no real chance to grieve the loss of your wife, your son, your parents," she murmured, compassion touching her features. "It seems unfair to press you into a new marriage so quickly."

"I was given the luxury of marrying once for love," he told her frankly. "It's a luxury I cannot indulge now. Ferelden needs stability, competence, and heirs, and I believe that together, we can provide all three." He stepped closer, catching one of her hands in both of his own. "I cannot tell you that I love you, but I can say without hesitation that I respect you greatly, and I would be honored to have you as my wife and my Queen."

Her fair cheeks pinked noticeably, and she seemed almost flustered, but she did not withdraw her hand. "That is more of a proposal than I got from Cailan," she admitted ruefully. "We were betrothed almost before either of us could walk; neither of us ever questioned it." She fell silent, looking down at their conjoined hands. "And if I do not wish to wed again?" she asked carefully.

"You are the heir to the Teyrnir of Gwaren," he replied at once. "You would govern those holdings as Teyrna, and hopefully serve as adviser to a novice King."

It was the right answer, and he could see the wheels turning in her head as she weighed options she had quite plainly not been sure she would be given. "And what becomes of the lands if we wed?"

"Regents would be appointed to oversee both Gwaren and Highever," he told her, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he added, "My sister has advised that we have no fewer than three children, placing the younger two in the Teyrnirs and using advantageous marriages to cement alliances with key nobles."

Pale eyebrows arched inquiringly. "Your sister?"

The rueful smile grew into a chuckle. "Aye. She's grown into quite the adept politician, I've discovered. She even managed to outmaneuver Eamon under his own roof."

That earned him the closest thing to a true smile he'd gotten yet. "Adept, indeed, for one so young," she agreed, "though I'd imagine she's had to learn much these past months out of brutal necessity." Her free hand came up to cover his, squeezing gently. "I will consider your proposal," she told him softly, "and I know that time is of the essence. You will have my answer before we depart for the Landsmeet, but regardless of my decision, you _will_ have my support as King."

He could ask for nothing more. "Thank you," he said simply, turning his head at the sound of boots ringing on the stairs and along the hall.

"Fergus?" Eamon strode into the room, not bothering to hide his disapproval at finding them alone together, but Fergus merely waited expectantly until he continued. "Your sister has returned – yes, and all of her companions with her," he added impatiently before Fergus could voice the question. "She's likely got quite the tale to tell."

"I suspect I know much of it already," Anora said, shadows touching her eyes as she stepped away from Fergus, releasing his hands and smoothing her skirts.

"I suspect we all do," Fergus said grimly. With Tevinters involved, the news could not be good. He offered her his arm. "Will you accompany me, my lady?"

Eamon's scowl deepened, but Anora dipped a graceful curtsy, saying, "I will, my lord, and my thanks," as she slipped her arm through his and let him escort her from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So … Eamon's a bit of a dick, yes? Not Rendon Howe level dick, and I can't really blame him for wanting to stick it to Loghain after all that's happened, but still … The game kept him pretty benign, but some of the political maneuvering around the Landsmeet suggested that there was at least some self-interest behind his actions. Plus, he's married to that Orlesian shrew that I can't find any redeeming qualities for.
> 
> Anyhow, this was my alternative to the slog through the alienage. It gave Fergus and Anora some getting-to-know-you time and let a bit more of Fergus' personality show. He's definitely more deliberate and disciplined than Talia, but he has a mind of his own that he's not afraid to use.
> 
> Fleshed out a bit of my own headcanon regarding Cauthrien and Anora here, as well. Still trying to decide if Cauthrien survives her return to Loghain, but if she does, I'll likely toss a past-to-present arc chapter into Stolen Moments featuring those two.


	62. Truth In Darkness

"Trouble sleeping?"

Talia glanced to the door of the tower. Zevran had, as usual, approached without a sound, pausing well away before making his presence known. "Something like that," she admitted with a shrug. "You?"

The elf stepped out onto the walkway, moving to stand beside her, looking over the parapet out onto Denerim. "I can do without sleep when there is need," he replied, "and it seemed to me that this night, it would be best to have another set of eyes remaining vigilant. Loghain Mac Tir's options – and allies - are dwindling; assassination is a tactic he has turned to before." The observation was made matter-of-factly, with no hint of embarrassment. "This -" a gesture with one hand encompassed their surroundings, "- is not the safest place to linger."

"Not much happening out there," Talia observed, nodding toward the darkened streets beyond the walls of Eamon's estate. Despite the nobles and their retinues who had arrived in the city from all over Ferelden, the atmosphere was restrained, tense, with no large gatherings or festivities, and few people lingering on the streets after the sun set. With the Landsmeet tomorrow, the city held its breath tonight.

"An assassin would not announce their presence," Zevran replied. "A trained archer in the shadows there -" He pointed to an alley perhaps a hundred yards distant, "or there -" A recessed shopfront a bit closer, "would have no difficulty making a shot at that range, and where we are standing is precisely where someone would be expected to be. Come." Placing a hand on her arm, he drew her away from the parapet to the far side of the tower, where the gabled roof peaked a couple of feet below the parapet. Over the side and out onto the tiles, and the elf led her to a spot in the shadow of another tower, well below the peak. The pitch of the roof was steep, to slough off the heavy winter snows, and sitting was tricky, but by bracing her heels, Talia finally found secure enough purchase. Zevran, of course, displayed no difficulty at all as he settled beside her.

"Now, we can see -" the sweep of his arm encompassed the courtyard of the estate and the street outside, "- without being seen." He tipped his head back, looking up at the tower that loomed overhead.

Talia nodded. "Thanks," she murmured, glancing around uneasily. "Do you really think he'll send assassins?" The stillness of the night, which only minutes before had seemed the result of an uneasy peace, now held threats in every pool of shadow.

"Unlikely," Zevran admitted. "In the first place, as I said, Loghain's options are running out; it is unlikely that any reputable assassins would consider a contract with him worthwhile. In the second, Loghain Mac Tir still considers himself to be an honorable man." The elf smiled thinly at the rude noise that was Talia's response. "He allowed Rendon Howe to tend to the more unsavory details of governing a kingdom in rebellion."

"Like selling elves from the alienage to Tevinter?" A spark of anger flared anew in Talia's chest. They had known going in that they were unlikely to find anything good, but the realization that Loghain had been selling Fereldans into slavery had been stunning. Enraging.

"Like that," Zevran agreed. If he had been as outraged as Talia, he had given no sign, fighting with his usual dispassionate efficiency.

"Didn't that bother you?" she asked him. They had killed Caladrius and his lackeys, ended the 'epidemic' that the Tevinters themselves had caused and found the contract with Loghain's seal on the magister's dead body, adding yet another crime to be laid at the Regent's feet. But there would likely be no finding the elves who had already been taken out of Ferelden.

"Because I am an elf?" He shrugged. "Such things did not matter in the Crows. I was not bought by them because I was an elf, but because I was a skilled enough liar and thief to be considered worth training. I stopped thinking of myself as an elf years ago, shortly before I stopped being surprised at the evil that men visit upon others for their own gain."

Talia accepted this with a slow nod. "You don't think that the one that we fought yesterday ..." She trailed off; he was already shaking his head.

"Taliesen? No. The Crows would have welcomed the completion of the original contract – they do have a reputation to uphold, after all, but if they had received a new contract on the Grey Wardens, they would have opted for a surer kill, without giving us any warning. No, he was here primarily for me." He chuckled softly. "I suppose that I should be flattered that they considered me worth recovering."

"I'd guess that having one of their assassins go rogue would be as bad for their reputation as failing to complete a contract," Talia guessed. The ambush had come as the companions made their way back from the alienage; the Crow who had led the attackers had offered Zevran the opportunity to join him in killing the Wardens and be welcomed back to the Crows. Much to Tala's relief, he had declined the offer.

"There is that," he conceded affably, "and Taliesen was always fond of dramatic touches."

Talia turned her head, studying his profile in the darkness. "He was a friend, wasn't he?" The banter between the two men had contained a darker edge of bitterness and betrayal that the insouciance of both had not been able to hide.

"He was that and more," Zevran replied simply. "The Crows purchased us the same year: two of eighteen such acquisitions, and the only two to survive to the end of our training. We were close, and worked well enough together that we were apprenticed as part of a team."

"Part?" Talia echoed. With anyone else, she would have suspected a slip of the tongue. Not Zevran. "Rinna?" He had not mentioned the name since their conversation in the Deep Roads, and she had not asked.

He nodded. "An elven lass. She was brought into the house several years after Taliesen and me. She was … a marvel." He tipped his head up, staring at the rising moon. "Tough, smooth, wicked. Eyes that gleamed like justice. She was everything that I thought I desired."

He shook his head, his lips thinning in a self-mocking smile. "I was quite certain in those days that I was the best Crow in Antiva. I was quite fond of bragging of my conquests … as an assassin and a lover. I had kept my heart closed to these conquests, but Rinna was special. She touched something within me. It … unsettled me. She, Taliesen and I made quite an effective team, but apart from our work, she came between Taliesen and me."

"And he didn't like it?"

"He did not," Zevran confirmed, his expression unreadable, "but he hid it well, and the leadership of the Crows wished for me to be taken down a few notches. We were assigned a contract on a very difficult mark: a wealthy merchant with many guards and a very knowledgeable informant. When Taliesen told me that Rinna had accepted a bribe from our mark, told him of our plans, I believed him … believed that Rinna's affections toward me had been a ruse … or, more accurately, I chose to believe it." A minute shrug of his shoulders before he continued. "Betraying the Crows has only one price; I agreed that Rinna should pay it and allowed Taliesen to kill her."

He fell silent then, staring out into the night. Talia gave him his silence, waiting beside him, letting her eyes shift from one pool of shadow to another, until he spoke again.

"Rinna begged me not to. On her knees, with tears in her eyes, she swore that she loved me and had not betrayed us. I laughed in her face, told her that even if it was true, I did not care." His head turned slightly as he gave her a sidelong glance. "I was quite skilled at lying, even then."

He went on. "'Taliesen cut her throat, and I watched her bleed as she stared up at me. I spit on her for betraying the Crows. It took us time, but Taliesen and I finally succeeded in assassinating the mark; when we did, I discovered the true source of his information. It had not been Rinna."

There didn't seem to be much to say to that. "I'm sorry, Zevran," Talia offered softly. Now, she couldn't imagine condemning Leliana to such a fate, but it had not been so very long ago that she had suspected the bard of duplicity and been ready to lash out.

_"If she survives the day, we'll deal with her tonight."_

She'd been an aching, angry, betrayed girl, but even then, her family's teachings of mercy and justice had tempered her reactions. What might she have been capable of if she had never been taught such things?

Zevran shook his head, shrugged again. "When we returned, we tried to hide what had happened, say that Rinna had been killed during the assassination. We needn't have bothered. They already knew the truth of the matter; they had arranged it. It was a test, they told us, of our loyalty, but it was more than that." His chin dropped slightly, dexterous fingers tracing over the hilt of one of the daggers at his hip. "It was my comeuppance, their way of telling me that she was nothing. That I was nothing. And that my day would come."

He leaned back along the slope of the roof, propping himself on his elbows and looking up at her. "My life grew quite bleak after that. I wanted nothing more than to die, and when a contract was offered upon the lives of two of the fabled Grey Wardens, it seemed as certain a means of suicide as any."

"And then, we didn't kill you." If she tried to match his pose, she'd likely slide right down the tiles into the courtyard, so Talia stayed put.

"Much to my surprise," he admitted with his usual candor. "Although I cannot say that I am disappointed in the turn of events. It has proven to be a most interesting journey."

"That's one way of putting it," Talia agreed.

Sea-green eyes watched her closely. "You have come a long way as well, my friend. Tomorrow is a day you have worked toward for many months."

"Yes," Talia agreed, but after a moment, she shook her head. "No, it's not. It has to be done, but ..." She trailed off. "Even if we win tomorrow, there's still the Archdemon to deal with. That's what really matters now." She glanced away from him, out into the night. "I remember when killing Howe, killing Loghain, was all that I cared about. Seems like so long ago now."

"A great many things can change one's perspective," Zevran observed. "Experience, responsibility … love."

Talia nodded. Each of those had shaped her over the last year. "I wanted to die then," she said softly. "Just like you did. I don't anymore." And Leliana was not the only reason. "Fergus. If I don't -" She stopped, swallowing against the tightness in her throat. "Even if we win tomorrow, there may be allies of Loghain and Howe that stay hidden, wait for the chance to get revenge." She met his eyes. "You know how to spot things like that. If I die killing the Archdemon, will you watch out for him?"

He regarded her steadily for a long moment before nodding. "I will. And Leliana?"

"Convince her to help you." It was actually a relief that the elf did not try to pretend that the odds of survival were any less dismal than she knew them to be. Even she and Alistair did not discuss it, but plans needed to be made, contingencies put into place. "Don't let her give up. She's stronger than that, even if she doesn't think so."

"She is," Zevran confirmed, "but as I have grown fond of both her and your brother, for now, I will devote my considerable talents to watching out for you."

The words were spoken with his usual glibness, but his eyes were serious. "I don't want you dying for me," she told him.

"Nor do I," he responded, "but that may not be a choice that either of us is given. That our merry little band has made it this far unscathed is somewhat remarkable. The chances of that luck continuing indefinitely are quite small. If you and Alistair are the only ones who can slay the Archdemon, you must survive to do so. Lives will be lost to ensure that."

"I don't -" The instinctive protest died on her lips. "I know." It was a fear that had haunted her since Lothering. Thoughts of her own death paled in comparison to it, and Zevran was right; winning through to a confrontation with the Archdemon would almost certainly cost the lives of some of them.

"Dwelling upon it will achieve nothing," he told her calmly. "I am not particularly easy to kill, but if it does come to pass, to die saving the world is a suitably heroic fate. For now, our focus should be on the Landsmeet; success tomorrow seems likely, but not certain, and fighting the Archdemon from inside a prison cell would be exceedingly difficult."

"True," Talia conceded. After a final glance into the courtyard below, she rose gingerly to her feet. "I should probably try to get some rest. You?"

He shook his head. "One night without sleep is no hardship for me, and while it is unlikely that Loghain will attempt anything untoward, unlikely and impossible are two very different things."

"Thank you." She would not have asked it of him, but she felt better knowing that he would be on guard. "And thank you for trusting me. About Rinna."

"You have earned that, my friend," he replied, "and it seems to me that she deserves to be remembered by someone besides myself."

"I will," Talia promised. She made her way carefully across the roof to the tower and back over the parapet. Below, Eamon's guards patrolled the halls, clearly as aware as Zevran that tonight would be Loghain's last opportunity to move against them.

Leliana woke as she slipped into bed … or perhaps she had yet not fallen back to sleep. After sneaking away at Redcliffe, she had not wanted her lover to wake to an empty bed again and had roused her when she had left earlier.

"Everything all right?" she murmured sleepily, reaching out to the Warden.

"Yes." Talia drew her close, the bard's hair soft against her cheek. "Just talking with Zev. He's staying on watch tonight."

"Good." Leliana snuggled closer, and within moments, her breathing had slowed and deepened. Sleep was longer finding Talia. Part of her wanted to stay awake, to treasure the simple peace of the moment and the feel of her lover sleeping in her arms, but she knew that, unlike Zevran, she could not forgo sleep completely and pay no price the following day, so she allowed her mind to drift, thinking of anything but what the next few days might bring, until sleep finally claimed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried weaving this into the first part of the Landsmeet chapter, but it just didn't want to fit. In playing the game, I don't think I ever managed to get Zev's approval high enough to hear Rinna's story, so my eternal gratitude to YouTube and The World of Thedas, Volume 2 for providing the background.
> 
> As I mentioned, the alienage questline was another of those parts of the game that never really clicked with me, so I opted to deal with it offscreen, as it were. I'd been contemplating a bit of romance between Zev and Shianni, but with the end of this beast finally in sight, I decided against any further digressions.


	63. The Landsmeet

"My lords and ladies of the Landsmeet, Teyrn Loghain would have us give up our freedoms, our traditions, out of fear!"

Eamon's voice rang out strong and clear, even through the closed doors to the Landsmeet chamber as Talia and Fergus led their companions into the entry hall. After some discussion, it had been decided that Eamon and Teagan, accompanied by the Redcliffe guards, would enter the chamber first and begin the Landsmeet; Loghain would not challenge their presence with the rest of the nobility there to bear witness. It did leave the rest of them in a decidedly tenuous position, as once the doors were closed, what happened outside could be spun in whatever manner Loghain chose, but it was a risk they had to take to preserve their final surprise until the right moment.

The score of guards outside the massive doors made it plain that Loghain expected their arrival, but Ser Cauthrien was not among their number, a realization that made Talia's gut clench with dread. She pushed the apprehension to the back of her mind; the events of the next few minutes would decide all their fates, and likely that of Ferelden, as well. If the knight still lived, they could only help her if they won the Landsmeet; if they lost, well …

"Wardens, you and your companions are under arrest for sedition, treason and murder," the captain of the guard announced, stepping forward with his hand upon his sword, "by order of King Loghain." The rest of the soldiers had moved into a loose semicircle in similar poses of readiness, but Talia could see apprehension on the faces of most. Though outnumbered nearly two to one, the companions had faced worse odds against more implacable foes; many of these men and women would die, if it came to fighting.

"Stand down, Captain Tanner." Anora's voice was calm but firm as she stepped forward from her protected position in the center, lowering the hood on her cloak to reveal her face. "My father is _not_ the ruler of Ferelden."

"Queen Anora?" The soldier's face paled visibly, and he swallowed nervously. "Your father believed you dead -"

"As you can see, I am not," she countered. "These Grey Wardens and their companions are my honored guests, and as Queen of Ferelden, I order you to step aside and let us pass."

Tanner hesitated, glancing back at the closed doors as though willing some form of guidance to issue from within. Talia tensed, ready to intervene if any of them attacked. Once, she had believed that there were lines that Loghain Mac Tir would not cross; after being in Howe's dungeons, she was no longer so sure.

"Don't be a fool, Captain!" a woman bearing lieutenant's insignia urged in an undertone. "We all know he's gone mad!"

That did it. Tanner's shoulders sagged, and he sank to one knee, the rest of the unit following suit. "Forgive me, Your Majesty," he said in a low voice. "Your father told us the Wardens had killed you, as they did King Cailan."

"They did neither." Anora slipped out of her cloak, handing it to Erlina. The dress that she wore beneath was a simple design in hues of blue and gold, the result of a hasty altering of one of Isolde's dresses, as they had no way of getting to her wardrobe in the palace, but her bearing was regal and dignified. "It is time to end his lies once and for all."

She stepped up to the door, then hesitated, glancing back at Fergus, doubts and fears writ large on her face in that moment: not a queen, but a daughter dreading a confrontation with her father. Talia sympathized with her plight, but she worried, as well; the course they had chosen gambled nearly everything upon Anora's cooperation. If she faltered or – worse – had intended from the beginning to betray them, their chances of winning without blood being spilled were slim, if they could win at all. Fergus, at least, had spent more time with the queen, and he seemed convinced that her agreement to marriage was sincere; he gave her an encouraging nod now, but still she hesitated, until Loghain's voice rose above the din of the other voices:

"My daughter, Ferelden's queen, was the guest of Arl Howe when the Grey Wardens butchered him in his own estate, and she's not been seen since! Tell me, Eamon, are you keeping her locked away, or have you already had her killed to make room for your puppet king?"

Pain and anger played across Anora's elegant features briefly before giving way to resolution, and she put a hand to the massive doors, pushing them inward, the well-oiled hinges swinging smoothly. Talia cast a final glance behind her, confirming that her companions were following the plan they had laid out: most of them would remain in the antechamber in case reinforcements arrived, or in case Tanner and his soldiers changed their minds about standing down. Only Alistair and Leliana followed close behind Talia and Fergus; the bard gave her a reassuring smile, but her blue eyes were serious. She knew well what was at stake, had rejected Eamon's suggestion that she remain in the entry hall with the rest, and Talia was glad of it, grateful for her steadying presence. She wished that her lover was beside her, but Eamon had choreographed the events of the next few minutes with meticulous care and the canny eye of one experienced in political maneuvering and well acquainted with the other players. The son and daughter of the slain Teyrn and Teyrna would be the Queen's most visible supporters.

"I believe that I can speak for myself." Anora's voice was confident and calm, pitched to carry to the furthest corners of the vaulted chamber, but the final words were almost lost beneath the sudden rise of exclamations of surprise from the gallery.

Talia and Fergus quickened their step, entering the chamber behind Anora just in time to see the chaotic mixture of relief, shock, guilt and anger twisting the features of Loghain into a barely recognizable visage as he gazed at his only child. If Anora noticed, she gave no sign.

"Lords and ladies of Ferelden, hear me. My father is no longer the man that you once knew. This man is _not_ the Hero of River Dane. This man turned his troops aside, refusing to defend your King as he fought bravely against the darkspawn!" Murmurs rippled through the onlookers: shock, agreement, disbelief, with no real indication yet where the balance would fall. Loghain's expression hardened to stone as his daughter went on:

"This man seized Cailan's throne before his body was even cold, and locked me away so that I could not reveal his treachery!" The murmurs grew louder now, shock definitely predominant. "I would indeed have been dead by now, if not for the Grey Wardens and this man," she turned, gesturing to Fergus, "the rightful Teyrn of Highever."

Most of the nobles knew by now that Fergus had survived Ostagar, but a few surprised exclamations were still audible here and there as Fergus stepped forward slightly, nodding to acknowledge those who called out to him, but then stepped back again, leaving the stage to Anora.

Loghain glared briefly at them all, loathing smoldering in his eyes, before turning his back on them to address the Landsmeet.

"The Wardens' pet maleficar has clearly influenced her mind!" he accused. "The Grey Wardens will use any means to achieve their aims: even blood magic! They cannot be trusted!"

_Now._ They had anticipated that particular accusation, and had readied a counter for it.

"The apostate who aids the Grey Wardens has been granted dispensation by the Chantry." Knight-Commander Greagoir spoke up, First Enchanter Irving beside him. That was the first that Talia had heard of any dispensation for Morrigan, but she supposed that letting the witch leave the Circle with them might be considered an informal disposition of sorts. "She was instrumental in ending the uprising in Kinloch Hold and in freeing Arl Eamon's son from the control of a demon, and both Irving and myself are confident that she is no blood mage.

The templar looked directly at Loghain as he continued. "The only blood mages that I have encountered recently all seem to be tied to you, in fact. Prior to leading the uprising that nearly destroyed the Fereldan Circle, Uldred claimed that you had promised the mages freedom from Chantry control in exchange for support."

"Lies!" Loghain snarled, but Greagoir was not done.

"And the maleficar who has admitted to poisoning Arl Eamon has also confessed that he did so on your orders, after your soldiers killed the templars who had taken him into custody."

"Not all of them were killed!" The voice that rang out belonged to Bann Alfstanna of Waking Sea. "My brother was one of them, and spent months in the dungeon of that bastard Howe before the Wardens and Fergus Cousland rescued him. The healers say that he may never recover from what was done to him!"

"My son was taken and held by Howe, as well!" Bann Sigard shouted. "The lad can barely walk!"

"Your son was engaged in sedition and treason!" Loghain thundered.

"So, you admit that you knew that Howe was holding him?" Sigard demanded.

"Rendon Howe's crimes were his own," Loghain countered. "He will answer to the Maker for them now, but he should have been brought before the courts." The cold grey eyes turned to stare past Anora to Talia and Fergus. "There is no justice in butchering a man in his home."

Talia felt her hands curling into fists, pulse pounding dully in her ears, but Fergus spoke before she could find her voice.

"A noble sentiment, ser," he replied, his voice level, his green eyes meeting Loghain's glare calmly, "but I don't recall hearing it expressed in regards to Howe's slaughter of men, women and children at Highever."

"Bryce Cousland was in league with Orlais -" Loghain began.

"Bollocks!" someone in the gallery shouted. "Bryce was no traitor, and Howe knew it!" Others called out their agreement, and relief flooded through Talia at the knowledge that not everyone had believed the lies about her parents.

Loghain's face hardened again. "Everything I have done has been for Ferelden," he shouted, turning back to the gallery. "Everything … for this kingdom!"

"Including turning me over to Howe to be murdered?" Anora asked, pain touching her features anew as she spoke. Loghain spun back to face her, but she went on, her voice softer than it had been, speaking only to her father. "You knew what that horrible man was capable of, and still you left me at his mercy. Look me in the eye and tell me that you believed that I would be safe. You can't," she went on sadly when he only stared at her, "and if me, then why not Cailan? Why not anyone?"

"You would have allowed the Orlesians to return to Ferelden!" he grated at her accusingly.

"That war is thirty years done!" she exclaimed. "The Blight is the foe that threatens us now, and you have all but thrown the kingdom to the darkspawn for fear of Orlais!" She lifted her head, blue eyes bright with unshed tears and resolve. "Nobles of Ferelden, it gives me no joy to say this, but I have seen ample proof that my father is guilty of crimes no less heinous than those perpetrated by Rendon Howe. He allowed nobles and members of the Chantry to be imprisoned and tortured. He sold the elves of the alienage to Tevinter for gold to fund the fight against those of the Bannorn who opposed him." That one had not been widely reported yet, and sent up a fresh wave of outraged murmurs. "I have seen the contract with my own eyes, with his seal upon it, and it pains me beyond belief that such atrocity was done in my name, that and worse."

She turned, gesturing to Talia and Alistair. "These two brave Wardens are all that remain of the Fereldan order. The rest of their valiant brethren perished with your King at Ostagar when my father turned his back on them. My father then dispatched an assassin to kill them, as he did to Arl Eamon, and when a Grey Warden arrived from Orlais to offer aid, he allowed Rendon Howe to imprison him!" She turned, nodding as Riordan stepped forward; the senior Warden had bathed and shaved, but he was still visibly gaunt, bruises and contusions standing out clearly on his face testifying to the abuse he'd endured. "With a Blight at our doorstep, he sought to destroy the only ones capable of killing an Archdemon! My lords and ladies, I trusted my father in the weeks following Cailan's death, and Ferelden has paid the price. I ask now that you put your trust in me, and in the Grey Wardens -"

"The Wardens are not needed!" Loghain thundered, whirling anew to face the gallery, his face suffused with fury. "Our land has been threatened before! It has been invaded and lost and won times beyond counting! We Fereldans have proven that we can never be truly conquered, so long as we are united. We must not let ourselves be divided now. Stand with me, and we shall defeat even the Blight itself!"

"I think he actually believes it," Fergus marveled to Talia in an undertone.

"He's the only one," Talia replied. Her brother nodded. Face after face showed disbelief, outrage, disgust, and more than a few refused to look at the regent at all, but she still found herself holding her breath as the pause when Loghain finished speaking lingered for several moments.

Arl Bryland spoke first. "South Reach stands with Queen Anora and the Grey Wardens!" he announced in a ringing voice.

"West Hills throws its lot in with the Wardens, Maker help us!" Arl Wulff called.

"If Queen Anora trusts the Wardens, that's enough for me!" Bann Frandarel spoke up next.

"Dragon's Reach for Queen and Wardens!" Bann Sigard roared, glaring at Loghain.

"I … stand with Teyrn Loghain!" Bann Ceorlic cried out in a querulous voice, shoulders hunched defensively. "We've no hope of victory otherwise."

"Waking Sea stands with the Grey Wardens," Bann Alfstanna proclaimed.

"I support the Queen!"

"The Wardens! The Blight is coming, we need the Wardens!"

Around the room, one after another, the nobles called out. A few of the voices raised were for Loghain, but by the time Eamon and Teagan spoke for Redcliffe and Rainesfere, there was no doubt as to the outcome of the vote, and Talia gratefully released the breath she'd held in.

"Traitors!" Loghain growled, glaring about the gallery with an expression of scathing contempt. "Which of you stood against the Orlesian emperor when his troops flattened your fields and raped your wives? You fought with us once, Eamon!" He thrust an accusing finger at Redcliffe's Arl. "You cared about this land once, before you got too old and fat and content to trouble yourself. You wanted Cailan to set aside my daughter for that Orlesian whore, and you use her now until you can replace her with the son of a traitor! How much did the Orlesians pay you? What is the price for Fereldan honor now?"

"No such conspiracy exists now, nor did one ever," Anora countered her father with a firm composure that contrasted sharply with his volatile fury. "Cailan had no intention of setting me aside, and I will not allow you to sully his memory by claiming otherwise. And the only one who has used me is _you_ , committing vile act after vile act in _my_ name to secure your own rule! No more! By the decision of the Landsmeet, I remain Queen of Ferelden, and I _will_ do my duty as Queen."

She strode back to Fergus, taking his hand in her own and drawing him forward. "Lords and ladies, this man fought loyally beside Cailan at Ostagar, and very nearly lost his own life. He survived to find that Rendon Howe had butchered his family, slandered their name and claimed the lands and title that were his rightful inheritance! He led those who fought courageously against the tyrannies of my father and Rendon Howe, and when he learned of my imprisonment, he and the Grey Wardens risked their lives to free me and the others held in that vile dungeon! This man is the son of two patriots who fought valiantly to free Ferelden from the clutches of Orlais, and is himself a Fereldan patriot, no less committed to this nation than I.

"I will always treasure my memory of Cailan," she went on, sadness touching her features briefly before resolution steeled them once more, "but my duty as Queen is to remarry and ensure that an heir to the throne is born. Nobles of Ferelden, I propose to unite the bloodlines of the two teyrnirs to found a new Fereldan dynasty and begin to heal the wounds that this conflict has inflicted upon our land! I give you Fergus Cousland as your King!"

"She's good." Leliana and Alistair had moved to stand on either side of Talia, the bard slipping her hand into Talia's. "She knows the power of words."

"The fact that she's not crazy helps, too," Alistair added from the corner of his mouth.

Talia nodded, her eyes searching the faces in the gallery. In theory, now that Anora had been confirmed by the Landsmeet, it was her right to choose a husband, but the atmosphere remained charged, volatile. Bryce and Eleanor Cousland had been well liked overall, but there were old conflicts and grudges that could rear their heads.

"What of the bastard prince?" Arl Wulff asked when Anora had finished speaking. "Do we not owe it to Maric to see his son on the throne?" Scattered murmurs of agreement rose around the room.

Talia exchanged a glance with Alistair and, giving Leliana's hand a squeeze before releasing it and stepping forward, shoulder to shoulder with her fellow Warden.

"I am a Grey Warden, Arl Wulff," Alistair addressed the noble who had spoken, but the sweep of his gaze encompassed the whole of the room. "We take no titles, rule no lands. Our whole focus must be on our duty, particularly now. And while I have never doubted Arl Eamon's word in the matter, there is no documentation to prove my lineage."

"That nose is enough!" somebody shouted from the rear to a smattering of laughter.

Alistair chuckled briefly at the jape before growing serious once more. "Be that as it may, not only does my duty as a Warden forbid me from taking the crown, I do not have the training to do so, and no desire to inflict _that_ disaster on either Ferelden or myself." His droll tone and expression drew even more laughs, and Talia felt the tension in the room beginning to seep away.

Alistair went on. "I've already signed a document, but I'll state now, in the presence of the Landsmeet, that I renounce any claim that my blood gives me on the throne of Ferelden. As a Grey Warden, my duty lies elsewhere, and always will."

Arl Wulff nodded slowly. "Well spoken, lad, and good enough for me." His gaze shifted to Anora and Fergus. "I say, long live Queen Anora and King Fergus!"

"Long live Queen Anora and King Fergus!" The cry was taken up around the chamber, growing stronger with each repeating and mingled with cheers; even Eamon joined in, though he didn't look nearly as enthusiastic as the rest, but Loghain was not done.

"Fools!" he raged. "Fat, lazy, complacent sheep! None of you deserves a say in what happens here! None of you has spilled blood for this land the way I have! I will not stand by and allow you to undo everything that Maric and I fought for!" Steel rang in the air as he swept his sword from its sheath, standing defiant in the center of the floor. "Which of you has the courage to actually fight for this kingdom?"

Everyone stood frozen for a long moment, but as Talia dropped her hand to the hilt of her borrowed blade, wishing anew for Starfang, Anora turned to Fergus.

"Lend me your sword." She spoke as calmly as a woman asking to borrow a cup of sugar from a neighbor. Fergus nodded, though his face reflected his doubts as he drew his blade from the scabbard and offered the hilt to his betrothed.

Talia nudged Alistair, and he nodded. The two of them edged apart, moving forward cautiously as Anora approached her father. She held the sword in the manner of one well trained in its use, but she was completely unarmored.

"I am Queen of Ferelden," she informed him in a level voice. "It is my rule that you challenge, and it is me that you must fight, if that is the course that you choose."

He stared at her with stricken eyes. "Don't do this, Anora," he pleaded with her in a voice rough with emotion.

"You have left me no other choice, Father," she replied regretfully. "Stand down or fight me."

It was a bold gamble, but one that risked every gain they had made to this point, and Talia stepped closer, and closer still, watching the emotions play unchecked across the face of the Hero of River Dane: love, regret, pain, sorrow, others that there was no easy name for.

"You look so much like your mother," he said softly, the tip of his sword wavering.

Then, in the next moment, it steadied, his expression hardening into grim resolve. "Let it never be said that I did not sacrifice everything for Ferelden!" he roared, lifting the blade high and bringing it down with all his strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally intended for this to encompass the full length of the Landsmeet scene, but I got to that last line, realized I hadn't done a real cliffhanger in a long time and figured why the hell not.
> 
> You're welcome.
> 
> Or I'm sorry, whichever is more appropriate.
> 
> This is another of those chapters that I've been fine-tuning in my head for about six years, and, as has proven the case with so many of the others, it took on a life of his own once the actual writing process began.
> 
> The chapter is in Talia's POV, but she surprised me by not involving herself. I tried a couple of times to turn things toward her, but after Anora took over, I just said 'You go, girl,' sat back and tried to keep up.
> 
> And thinking about it, actually makes sense when approaching the Landsmeet from the angle I took, with Anora as a willing ally, rather than a reluctant conspirator looking out for her own interests. The role that the Wardens play in the Landsmeet generally assumes that one or both of them are taking the throne, and they've spent time schmoozing up the players in the Gnawed Noble in between killing Howe, escaping Fort Drakon and evicting the Tevinters from the alienage.
> 
> The pre-Landsmeet schmoozing fell mainly to Eamon and Teagan here, as Talia & Al were a little busy, and, as Talia pointed out, Eamon is the man with the contacts. Talia and Alistair just gave him the ammunition to take Loghain down, and Maker, was there ever no shortage of it!
> 
> I think I was on my fourth playthrough of DA:O before I stumbled over the mention of Loghain in connection with Uldred's uprising, which puts him at the heart of pretty much every shitstorm in Ferelden. It made me wonder why the hell anyone was following him by the time the Landsmeet rolled around, and it meant that there was never any real doubt as to which way things were going to fall.
> 
> So … Anora. I dropped her behind the wheel for a test drive, and she floored it, but since she was heading in the direction I wanted to go, I let her, and again, it feels right to me. She is the Queen, and it made sense for her to re-assert her authority against the man who usurped it; she is her father's daughter, both in will and oratory skill, and overall, I'm pretty pleased with her performance.
> 
> Once her own status was secured, bringing in Fergus as her own choice cut the legs out from under anyone who might have claimed that it was a manipulation of either Eamon or the Wardens.
> 
> And can I just say that I like my Alistair much more than the snot-nosed, foot-stomping brat that the game generally sticks me with? Because I do. My boy has grown up, and I love him.
> 
> As to what happens next, well, I'll probably get to where you think I'm going, just not by the usual routes.


	64. The Lion's Fall

Screams and shouts arose from the onlookers, and Talia, Alistair, and Fergus all moved to intervene, but Anora stepped smoothly aside, skirt flaring with the motion as she evaded the deadly blow, thrusting forward with her borrowed blade at the same time. Loghain's own momentum did the rest, and the sword punched through his cuirass with the scream of metal on metal, plunging deep into his chest.

Time seemed to freeze for an endless moment as father and daughter stared at each other, the blade between them; then, Loghain's sword slipped from his fingers, clattering on the stones, and he collapsed to the floor, Fergus' bloody sword sliding from his chest and falling beside the other as Anora released it to sink to her knees beside him.

"Father!" she cried out in a choked voice, lifting his head to her lap, heedless of the blood darkening her skirt.

Talia glanced over her shoulder, her eyes seeking out Leliana. "Get Wynne," she ordered, then turned back, knowing that the bard would not hesitate. Moving quickly, she knelt opposite Anora. "Fergus, I need a bandage," she announced brusquely. Her brother immediately began stripping out of his surcoat, looking as stunned as she felt.

Logain's eyes fluttered open, finding his daughter. "Good … to see that you haven't … let your training go," he told her, blood already staining his lips, trickling from the corner of his mouth.

"As if I could forget the lessons you drilled into me," she replied with a laugh that turned into a sob. "Now hush and save your strength. I need a healer!" she called out, lifting her head and looking around frantically. "Send for a healer!"

"One is on the way, Your Majesty," Talia told her, accepting the surcoat from Fergus. "We need to get him out of this armor." She reached for the buckles that secured the cuirass, but Loghain batted weakly at her hands.

"Stop it, Father!" Anora scolded him, trying to restrain him. "She's trying to help you!"

He shook his head. "Anora … hush … it's over."

"No!" she cried out angrily, snatching the surcoat from Talia and pressing it over the hole in the cuirass in an ineffectual attempt to staunch the bleeding. "Stop talking to me like I'm a child!"

"Daughters never … grow up, Anora." Loghain's voice was little more than a whisper, his eyes drifting closed and an oddly gentle smile touching his bloody lips. "They remain six years old … with pigtails and skinned knees … forever."

Wynne arrived, Leliana close behind, and Talia surrendered her place to the mage, watching with her lover at her side as Loghain opened his eyes to regard the mage.

"I remember you," he said softly, the words punctuated by a spate of coughing that spattered blood on both of the women hovering over him. "Don't … waste your efforts."

"Let her help you, Father!" Anora pleaded with him, smoothing his hair away from his face, her fingers leaving bloody streaks on the paling skin. "You can't leave me!"

"I … already have, Maker … forgive me," he breathed. "All that's … left for me here … is exile or a prison cell." He closed his eyes again, his breathing growing harsh. "I would … die free, and on … Fereldan soil, and … I can face the Maker knowing that the kingdom is in your hands."

He fell silent for several long moments, the rasp of his breath the only sound in the chamber as the pool of blood beneath him spread steadily, crimson rivulets running outward along the gaps in the paving stones. Talia exchanged helpless glances with Fergus and Alistair; there was nothing that any of them could do. Forcing the man to accept healing so that he could be sentenced seemed ludicrous, but what if Anora's grief caused her to change her mind and take up the cause of the father she had slain?

Loghain's breathing grew even more labored, a liquid gurgle churning within each gasp, but his eyes opened once more, his head turning until his gaze found Talia.

"Cauthrien," he said weakly. "In Fort Drakon. Show her mercy … Warden. Her greatest crime … was trusting … me."

"I will," Talia promised, feeling a wash of relief at the knowledge that the knight still lived.

He was struck by another bout of coughing, this one thick with blood; when it ended, the lower half of his face and his neck were stained red, but he clung stubbornly to life, his eyes seeking out Fergus next.

"Treat my daughter well," he rasped, "and this kingdom, or you'll answer to me, if I have to cross the Veil to do it."

"You have my word on it, ser," Fergus replied solemnly, "as a Cousland."

Loghain nodded wearily, half-lidded eyes turning now to Anora. "You do look so much like your mother," he whispered, the final word trailing into a ragged exhalation. Beneath the cuirass, the chest stilled, grey eyes slipping closed a final time.

Loghain Mac Tir was dead.

Wynne murmured her sympathies to the Queen, then stood and stepped back respectfully. A few hushed voices rose up here and there among the onlookers, but no one moved. Anora remained on her knees, head bowed in silence. A minute passed, then two; Talia looked to Fergus, who shook his head very slightly, telling her to wait. Another minute, and finally Anora lifted her head, eyes bright with tears that had not yet fallen. Gently lowering her father's head to the stones, she stood, retrieved Fergus' sword, still stained with Loghain's blood, and faced the Landsmeet once more.

"Is there any other who would challenge my rule or my choice of a husband?" she cried, her voice ringing out clear and steady. When – unsurprisingly – no one spoke up, she went on, her words throbbing with emotion, "Then I beg of you all: let this be the last time that Fereldan blood is shed by Fereldan hands, and let us go forward to meet the Blight as a people united!"

The cheers that greeted her words, while not unanimous, were heartfelt, the coiled tension in the room finally subsiding, but Talia's eyes sought out those who were not joining in the celebratory mood. Bann Ceorlic stared at Loghain's corpse with an expression of disbelief; Esmerelle, bann of the city of Amaranthine looked on with a sneer of disapproval that vanished when she realized that she was being observed. Her eyes locked with Talia's for a long moment, as cold and dark as the Frozen Sea in winter, and the Warden felt her hand tightening on the hilt of her sword.

"Who is she?" Leliana at her side, voice low in her ear, a gently restraining hand on her wrist. Talia told her, and the pretty face grew grave. "She will bear watching," she advised, "but she is no danger right now." Easy pressure turned her back to where Anora had brought Fergus to stand at her side, the cheers growing stronger as his supporters added their voices. "You made this possible, my love," she told Talia, pride and love shining in her eyes.

Talia shook her head. "Not alone," she disagreed. "Not without the others. Not without you." She would willingly have stayed lost in those sapphire depths, but Anora's voice was calling her back.

"The Grey Wardens will take charge of the strategy against the darkspawn," the Queen proclaimed, motioning her and Alistair forward, "and your King will command our armies." As she spoke, she returned Fergus' sword to him. Talia's brother accepted it, lifting his eyes to the gallery as he spoke.

"The Queen is right; the time for divisions among us is at an end. I ask that those of you who, like me, rebelled against the tyranny and injustices that we saw inflicted upon our kingdom trust that that time has ended. All able bodied militia should be assembled and marched to Denerim with all speed."

"Is it a Blight, then?" someone asked.

"It is," Fergus confirmed, glancing to Talia.

"We've seen the Archdemon," she spoke up, looking around at their faces. Some were strangers to her, but many of them she had known from her earliest years, as guests at Highever and fellow attendees at court. They had changed, aged: their faces lined with a weight beyond the year that had elapsed since she had last seen them. She had no doubt changed no less in their eyes; they watched her intently, as though trying to see the child they had known in the Grey Warden who stood before them.

Her announcement was met with cries of dismay, but Fergus lifted his hands, asking for calm.

"It is a Blight, and we will meet it as Blights have always been met: with allies," he told them.

"Kinloch Hold stands ready to assist the Grey Wardens," Knight-Commander Greagoir called out, the First Enchanter beside him. "Mages and templars alike will arrive in Denerim in a week's time."

"The Wardens have also revived alliances with the Dalish elves and the dwarves of Orzammar," Talia added, though her words seemed scant assurance to most, who saw the Dalish seldom and any but surfacer dwarves even less. She might as well have announced that they had griffins to ride, so nebulous would such allies seem to those who had not walked among them.

Riordan joined Talia. "The Grey Wardens of Orlais stand ready to fight alongside our Fereldan brethren," he said, "and Empress Celene has pledged her chevaliers to assist us."

The Orlesians were a much more familiar prospect, and an angry buzz rose up on the tail of his words. "And how do we know they will leave, once the Blight has been ended?" Esmerelle demanded.

"If they don't, we'll run them out again!" Arl Wulff roared, eliciting whoops of approval. Others echoed Esmerelle's concern, and for several moments, the chamber was awash with conflicting shouts until Anora's voice cut through the din as cleanly as a knife.

"Empress Celene is not her father," the Queen stated with calm surety, raising her voice without shouting. "Her desire is not for conquest, but peace, culture and learning." The voices died down noticeably at this, but rumbles of unease persisted.

"Nobles of Ferelden, hear me, please." Riordan stepped forward. "Ferelden is a young nation, not yet formed at the time of the last Blight, but the darkspawn are an ancient enemy of all of Thedas, and the traditions by which Thedas fights that enemy are only slightly less ancient. Never has any nation used a Blight as a tool of conquest; every other land in the south would turn upon them in revulsion. Furthermore, the Grey Wardens swear fealty to no nation; our only loyalty is to the eternal fight against the darkspawn, and the slaying of the Archdemons as they arise. My Orlesian brethren have waited these many months for word to join the fight in Ferelden. By now, they have been joined by Wardens from the Free Marches, Antiva, Rivain, and soon, Wiesshaupt. If Orlais were to use the Blight as an excuse for invasion, the Grey Wardens _will_ stand in Ferelden's defense."

His words were well received, and though not everyone seemed convinced, least of all Bann Esmerelle, the scales had plainly been tipped away from Loghain's isolationist course. Talia looked to Alistair, seeing in his face the same elation that surged through her; they would no longer be the only Grey Wardens to stand against this Blight. Death was no longer the near certainty that it had been.

"Messengers will be sent immediately." Fergus addressed the Landsmeet now, no hint of hesitation in his manner. "The Grey Wardens are earnestly desired in Ferelden, and Empress Celene's gracious offer of assistance will be accepted. We will meet this Blight with our allies, and we will end it! For Ferelden!" His voice rose to a shout on the last word, and was answered with thunderous cheers that went on for some time before dying down enough that he could continue. "Return to your homes, gather your warriors and prepare for battle! Once our forces have assembled, we will take the fight to the darkspawn and reclaim the lands they have taken!"

* * *

"More Wardens!"

Talia managed to wait until they had made it to the privacy of the royal chambers before catching Alistair in a bear hug. He returned the rough embrace, looking no less relieved than she felt.

"We might survive this after all," he said, not entirely in jest.

"We are still in for a long fight, my friends," Riordan warned them, not unkindly. "Histories of previous Blights indicate that it can take many years to reduce the darkspawn numbers to the point that the Archdemon will expose itself, but -" He put a hand on each of their shoulders, his smile warm, "you will not face that fight alone. Your brethren will stand beside you."

"How many Wardens do you think will come?" Talia wanted to know, reaching out for Leliana's hand. The bard took it readily, moving close, blue eyes intent on Riordan, waiting for his answer.

"A few dozen at first," he replied. "Each nation's order has likely sent no more than an expeditionary force, but with a Blight confirmed, every Warden will mobilize. Weisshaupt alone is said to be home to more than a thousand Grey Wardens."

"A thousand," Talia marveled, meeting Leliana's eyes, seeing her own hope – and caution – reflected there. It seemed a lifetime ago that they had spoken at Redcliffe of the might of hundreds of Wardens, and she could still barely imagine such a thing. Surely that many could defeat the Archdemon?

Before any more could be said, the rear door to the chamber opened, and the rest of their companions filed in, eager for an account of the Landsmeet.

"Did we win?" Oghren demanded, looking peeved that he'd not gotten to use his axe.

"Word is spreading that Loghain is dead," Wynne said, watching Talia and Alistair closely.

"He is," Alistair confirmed, his expression growing somber. "Anora killed him … _after_ he tried to kill her."

"No," Leliana disagreed. "He intended for it to happen just as it did."

"Indeed." Startled, Talia turned to see that Anora and Fergus had entered through the opposite door. "If my father had wanted me dead, rest assured that I would be dead right now."

Alistair flushed with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, Your Majesty," he stammered. "I didn't mean -"

"It is all right, Alistair." Anora's smile was wan, her face pale and showing the strain that she had refused to display to the Landsmeet. "My father was a proud man, and a stubborn one. He would never have accepted either exile or imprisonment … and he knew that I would not countenance an execution. He chose his own fate, as he always had." Tears glossed her eyes again, but they did not fall.

"I had hoped to convince him to join the Grey Wardens," Riordan admitted, adding, when Talia and Alistair both responded with astonished looks, "Regardless of his crimes, his martial skills were formidable; his tactics in the war with Orlais are studied by the chevaliers. The Wardens have offered many convicted of crimes a chance at redemption." It made a certain amount of sense, and at any rate, the point was clearly a moot one, so Talia decided that voicing the reservations that she would have had would serve no purpose.

Anora shook her head sadly. "It would have been an ideal solution, but my father never would have agreed. He never lost his conviction that the Wardens were agents of Orlais, and his hatred of the empire burned far too bright. It consumed him in the end." Fergus placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she leaned ever so slightly into his touch.

"He wanted you to lead Ferelden," he told her gently. "He had faith in you, in the end."

"And I must live up to that faith, and the faith the Bannorn has placed in me," Anora agreed, lifting her chin bravely, though her eyes remained touched by sorrow. "Ser Riordan, will you carry word to your fellow Grey Wardens, and to Empress Celene, that Ferelden welcomes their aid?"

The senior Warden hesitated before answering, bowing respectfully as he spoke. "Your Majesty, it would be best if I remained here. These two -" he nodded toward Talia and Alistair, "have accomplished more than I would have believed possible, with no more than they had been taught before Ostagar, but they know next to nothing of the order they have served so valiantly, and I have had little time until now to answer their questions. I would remain here for that, and to offer my experience, should the darkspawn threaten before the other Wardens arrive. I will write a letter myself to add to your missive. Warden-Commander Clarel de Chanson will recognize my signature."

Anora nodded. "An acceptable alternative. I would not deprive our Wardens of an experienced colleague. I will prepare the missives, but first, I would begin righting my father's wrongs … and a few of my own, as well." Her eyes met Talia's as she went on. "I believe that Ser Cauthrien has been in Fort Drakon long enough."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's official. The characters have taken over this story. For six freaking years I've been planning to have Loghain refuse to be made a Grey Warden & choose execution. As late as the end of the last chapter, I was planning an epic intervention and epic fight in which he was defeated, leading to just that. I never pictured him as willingly joining the Wardens; apart from his antipathy toward the order, I think that even at his most insane, he retained enough of a sense of honor to refuse the hypocrisy that would have entailed.
> 
> But I never could get behind the idea of executing Loghain in front of his daughter, a block that only got stronger after she did such a kickass job in the last chapter. So, while I was dithering around, trying to decide if Fergus, Alistair or Talia jumped in, he and Anora decided it for me, and it felt right. It also felt right to me that his statement about meeting the Maker knowing that Ferelden was in good hands was delivered to her, rather than any of the people he's spent the last year trying to kill.
> 
> I did get the concern about Orlais voiced, and hopefully answered in a plausible seeming fashion. My reading on the first four Blights indicated that, while some nations were slow to offer aid, none had ever attacked a Blight-ridden rival for territorial gain (because who wants Blight-tainted land in the first place?). And while the Grey Wardens don't meddle in political affairs, I don't see them standing by & standing down while an aggressor tries to use the Blight for their own gain.
> 
> And a touch of hope. Never made sense in-game why the first move after winning the Landsmeet wasn't sending for the other Grey Wardens. I mean, we know they're not gonna get there in time, but they don't, though given all the time you spend trotting to Redcliffe and back, I'm not sure why they couldn't have made it by ship if the messengers were sent off promptly.


	65. Preparing For War

"Open the gate, in the name of Queen Anora!"

The walk to Fort Drakon had been a somber one; the Landsmeet had adjourned on a note of subdued relief, and no one had objected when Queen, pale but resolved, had ordered her father's body taken to be prepared for a pyre.

Most of the companions had returned to Eamon's estate; Alistair, Talia and Leliana accompanied Anora and Fergus to the ancient fortress and prison, along with Tanner, Kylon and a contingent of guards, in case those at Drakon were inclined to resist the change in command. Crowds filled the streets of Denerim, most of whom seemed to feel no need to restrain their jubilation, and cheers of 'Death to the tyrant!' were heard, though they died away as the tyrant's daughter approached, to be replaced with cries of 'Maker's blessings on Queen Anora!'. Anora ignored the former and accepted the latter with a gracious smile, waving to her subjects, none of whom were close enough to see the strained lines around the blue eyes.

None of them spoke, though Talia more than once looked as though she wanted to; Loghain's end, and the manner by which it had come, clearly troubled her, and it was not difficult for Leliana to surmise why. She still grieved the loss of her own father; the final moments between Loghain and Anora, the glimpse of the man who lay beneath the foe that she had hated for the last year, and the knowledge that the Queen had been the one forced to kill him … none of it would sit well with Talia. Or Alistair, from the look of him.

Leliana was fiercely proud of them both. Knowing when not to step forward and intervene could be as vital as being willing and able to take charge when needed. Both of them had learned the latter over months of sometimes brutal necessity, but had rarely been faced with a situation that required the level of restraint that the Landsmeet had called for. Both of them had still hungered to avenge the betrayal of Ostagar, but they had set that aside to allow Ferelden to unite behind a monarch that it had chosen. It had been risky, allowing Anora to be the one to meet Loghain's challenge, but the bard's experienced eye agreed with the Queen's conclusion: his 'attack' had been intended to end precisely as it had, his death a freely chosen alternative to surrender and disgrace.

And the other Wardens were coming! It would still be a dangerous fight, but with dozens, and perhaps eventually hundreds of Grey Wardens to share in it, the risk to Talia and Alistair would be lessened, and Leliana might dare dream of a future with her lover after the Blight had ended.

"The Queen lives?" The startled response to Captain Tanner's order was accompanied by soldiers clustering atop the wall to peer down at their group. Several of them had bows, Leliana noted warily, but none had yet drawn or taken aim.

"She does," Tanner replied, "and her right to rule was confirmed by near unanimous consent in the Landsmeet."

"And the Regent?"

"My father is dead," Anora spoke up, stepping past the soldiers who had interposed themselves between her and the archers, exclamations rising at the sight of the bloodstains on her dress, "by my hand. The rebellion in the Bannorn is ended, and we've a Blight to deal with. Open the gate, Lieutenant."

Almost immediately, shouted orders were heard, followed quickly by the creak of the chains that raised the portcullis and booted feet ringing on stone as the soldiers scrambled into formation.

"Your Majesty," the young lieutenant greeted Anora with a salute. "Captain Tanner ... Captain Kylon?"

"Captain Kylon acted upon my orders, Lieutenant," Anora told him calmly, stilling the rumbles of outrage that had risen from the formation when Kylon had been recognized. "The Wardens had been unjustly detained after rescuing me from Rendon Howe. I trust that the weapons and armor that were taken from them have been appropriately secured?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," came the unhesitating reply, and Talia gave Leliana's hand a squeeze, exchanging a relieved look with Alistair. The armor had been borrowed, but the weapons: Starfang and Duncan's sword and dagger, would have been irreplaceable, and they had been more than half expecting that one or more of the soldiers would have appropriated them.

"Very good," Anora said. "Please have them brought to the gate, along with Ser Cauthrien's belongings, and take us to where she is being held."

"At once, Your Majesty." The lieutenant turned to bark out an order to a pair of subordinates who immediately darted off, then turned back to the Queen. "Follow me, please."

"My father was never one to tolerate theft or any other breaches of discipline in the ranks," Anora murmured as they strode across the courtyard toward the towering edifice of the fort. "I was hoping that had not changed."

"We were treated reasonably," Talia replied, a quick glance to Leliana reinforcing the words. She'd already said as much before, as had Alistair, but the memory of those hours of waiting, not knowing, lingered on a visceral level not easily reached by reason. Still, she managed a smile for her Warden. "We weren't particularly popular, mind you," Talia added wryly.

"That will change," Anora promised. "This kingdom owes you – all of you," her gesture encompassed Fergus and Leliana along with the Wardens, "a debt that can never be repaid."

"Not until we've ended the Blight," Talia disagreed. How she had changed, grown! The girl who had hungered for nothing but revenge was gone; the Warden stepped past the memory of the bodies of Howe and Loghain without a backward glance, her eyes fixed on the duty before her.

"That will be much easier with the reinforcements," Fergus put in. He had stayed largely quiet, allowing Anora to take the lead, but like his sister, his watchful eyes seemed to miss little. "Once our forces have assembled, I intend to minimize engagements with the darkspawn until after the other Grey Wardens have arrived."

"No argument from me," Talia agreed readily, "but we should send out scouts to see where they're at."

Fergus nodded. "I was going to ask Temulun and his warriors to do that," he said. "They move the fastest over open terrain."

Leliana tried to focus on their conversation as they passed through the arch of the doorway, leaving bright sunlight behind for shadow lit by torches and narrow windows. Within, the scene was clean, neat, orderly; word of Anora's arrival had plainly been relayed, armored figures snapping to attention in doorways and halls as they passed. The outer area was benign enough: offices and meeting rooms, but they moved past this, to a guarded door made of iron-bound oak, then through it into rows of cells. Iron bars and stone floors and the stink of sweat and piss; considerably fainter than they had been in Howe's dungeons, and without the taint of blood and death, but still more than enough to stir old memories to life, with no urgent task to distract herself with.

She kept her eyes focused ahead, not looking at the cells or their occupants, feeling her heart beginning to speed at the echoing of booted feet on stone: the same sound that had announced each new round of torment. Her mind might believe Anora's words about discipline and her eyes see the proof in the cleanness of the bars, the professional carriage of the soldiers they passed, but her memory saw rusted iron and damp stone and unshaven faces, heard screams of pain and rough laughter, smelled mildew and blood and semen, felt -

"I'm here." The words were spoken so quietly that she at first thought she had imagined them, but when she looked up, she met Talia's eyes: gentle and warm, drawing her back into the present.

"I know," she replied, equally soft. "Thank you." She wanted desperately to be held, to let the warmth of her lover's arms push back the last of the chill, but now was not the time or place; the simple fact of her presence would suffice. "I would have come for you." The fear would not have stopped her; the Archdemon itself would not have been sufficient deterrent.

"I know that, silly," Talia told her, bending to steal a quick kiss. "I'm just glad you didn't have to."

They came to a stop outside a cell block, waited while the door was unlocked. "This is the one they had us in," Talia remarked as Anora signaled for the guards to wait outside. Inside, four cells lined the far wall, only one of them occupied.

"Unlock it," the Queen ordered as the lone prisoner came to her feet.

"Your Majesty." Cauthrien was clad in a simple tunic, trews and boots, and seemed uninjured, but the lack of armor was not the only reason that the knight seemed smaller. Her posture retained its military precision as she bowed to Anora, but her expression was caught between relief and resignation, and she made no attempt to leave the cell, even after the door swung open. "Is he -"

"Dead." The emotion in her face and her voice was something that Anora had not showed since she had risen from Loghain's dead body.

Cauthrien nodded, her mouth opening, then closing, and she dropped her head, seeming to shrink even further. "I tried to convince him -" she muttered in a hoarse whisper, then sank to one knee before Anora. "Any crimes that he was guilty of, I share equal blame in." Her voice was low but clear, and she would not lift her eyes to the Queen. "It is only just that I share his punishment."

After a moment, Anora knelt as well, her bloodstained skirt pooling around her. "My father felt otherwise," she told the knight gently, "and for the first time in many months, I agree with his assessment. We both trusted him."

Cauthrien shook her head, her eyes still downcast. "But I _knew_ -"

Anora stopped her, a hand beneath Cauthrien's chin lifting until their eyes met. "As did I," she said firmly, "but the only way that we can even begin to make things right is to live. That is what he wanted … for both of us."

Cauthrien considered this, nodded slowly. "What would you have me do, Your Majesty?" she asked quietly, her expression bleak, resigned as they both got to their feet.

"Before he … died," Anora paused, collecting herself, then went on. "The Grey Wardens thought to recruit him, to allow him to find redemption in their ranks. I believe that the Fereldan order can benefit from your skills."

"The Wardens?" Cobalt eyes shifted to Talia, a flicker of curiosity visible. "You would accept me?"

"We would," Talia replied, showing no hint of surprise, though Anora had not mentioned the notion before now, "though the Joining will have to wait until the other Wardens arrive. You'll still be under my command until then, if you accept." Her expression was impassive, giving no hint of what thoughts or emotions lay beneath her words.

The knight regarded her for long seconds before nodding again. "I'll do it … Warden Commander," she said, standing up straighter and saluting.

Talia accepted this with a nod. "Good," she replied, and Leliana swallowed the twinge of jealousy that she knew was irrational. It was a logical arrangement, after all; Cauthrien was too closely associated with Loghain to simply go free, and after Cailan's death, resuming her duties as a royal bodyguard was equally impossible. The Wardens would gain a skilled fighter, and Cauthrien would have a path that would allow her to atone, if the remorse she seemed to feel was genuine.

Or she would die in the Joining, a risk that neither Cauthrien nor Anora was aware of, and that neither Talia nor Alistair would reveal before the ritual.

With Cauthrien accompanying them, they returned to the gate of the fort to find that Anora's orders had been obeyed; the warriors wasted no time in reclaiming their confiscated weapons.

"That's a fine blade," Kylon remarked as Talia looked Starfang over before returning the sword to the scabbard and securing the belt around her waist. "I can see why you didn't want to leave without it. What's it made of? I've never seen steel like that."

"Starmetal." Talia hesitated, then drew the sword again, offering it for Kylon's inspection. He took it, his surprised expression shifting to something close to reverence as he tested its heft and balance. "Made by the smith Mikhael Dryden."

"I'd heard of weapons made from starmetal." Kylon held it out, squinting along the edge. "Never thought I'd see one." He passed it back to Talia. "Do me a favor and bury it to the hilt in the Archdemon's throat."

"That's the plan," Talia replied, smiling thinly as she sheathed the blade. "Yours all right?" she asked Alistair, with a questioning look to Cauthrien that was answered with a simple nod as the knight donned her armor and settled her massive sword into its place across her back.

"More or less," Alistair reported, scowling as he examined a nick in the edge of his sword. "Looks like somebody just had to swing it at something." He gave his fellow Warden a wry look. "Probably yours." He sighed and sheathed it. "Nothing an hour or two with a stone won't smooth out."

"I'm sorry, Alistair," Anora apologized, while the suddenly-pale lieutenant stammered an echo, but Alistair shook his head.

"I'm just glad to get them back," he said. "One nick isn't so bad. Where to now?"

"You and your companions are more than welcome to stay at the palace," Anora said at once. "It is the more secure location, and will make planning over the next few days easier. Eamon and Teagan are likewise welcome to take rooms at the palace," she added.

Wise of her, Leliana reflected as they made their way back to the Arl of Redcliffe's estate, accompanied by Kylon and a contingent of soldiers assigned to protect Fergus. She had far outstripped the role the Arl had originally intended for her to play in his kingmaking scheme, and he hadn't quite been able to hide his disgruntlement at the fact. Including him in the planning process, acknowledging the role that he had admittedly played in returning her to the throne, would be a sop to his pride that would help to maintain his loyalty.

Her assessment proved an accurate one. Eamon's visible displeasure at learning that the Wardens and Fergus were relocating to the palace was noticeably softened by the Queen's invitation … which was accepted, as Leliana had fully expected it to be. Security and convenience aside, the prestige of such an offer was a powerful lure.

They'd never really unpacked their bags, so packing to go was the work of only a few minutes, but when Leliana turned to the door of their room, Talia held her back, taking her pack from her and setting it on the floor.

"Not yet," she murmured, wrapping her arms around the bard. Leliana returned the embrace gladly, accepting the comfort she'd not been able to earlier and wishing that their armor did not separate them, or that the others were not waiting for them.

"Been wanting to do this all day," Talia breathed, pressing kisses to her temple, her cheek. She turned her head and their lips met, the kiss slow and tender, deepening as Leliana reached up to thread the fingers of one hand into Talia's braid, drawing her down. The separated only slightly when the kiss ended, Talia's forehead resting against her own, a gentle hand tracing the curve of her cheek. "Today was -" she shook her head slowly, dark eyes distant and bemused.

"You did wonderfully, my love," Leliana told her, her voice warm with approval, but Talia shook her head again, more forcefully.

"I didn't do anything," she disagreed.

"You made it all possible," Leliana said firmly. "You and Alistair."

"And the others," Talia put in, no less firmly, "and you. And Fergus, and Anora." Her expression grew troubled. "I never wanted her to have to kill her own father," she said quietly. "I knew he wouldn't let himself be taken alive, but I never intended -"

"What happened was his choice, and Anora's," Leliana reminded her.

"I know," Talia replied. "I just never expected it to happen the way it did." She snorted, a faintly sardonic smile touching her lips. "You'd think I'd be used to that by now, wouldn't you?"

Leliana smiled at that. "We do seem to encounter more than our share of the unexpected," she agreed, "but things seem to work out for the best, no?"

Talia nodded. "Some things better than others," she said with a smile that made the bard's heart quicken. "I never expected you." She kissed Leliana again … and again. "And that definitely worked out for the best," she whispered, hugging her tight.

"Keep this up, and I'm getting you out of that armor," Leliana warned her, not entirely in jest. "The others can wait or go on, as it suits them."

"Soon," Talia promised, nuzzling at the spot below her ear that never failed to make her breath catch, breath warm against her skin, arms holding her even closer for a long moment before loosening. "I'm sure we'll have our own room at the palace, as well, and hopefully a few days to rest before the other Wardens get here." She quieted again, and it was not difficult to guess why a prospect that had been cause for jubilation an hour before should make her pensive now.

"Cauthrien?"

Talia nodded somberly. "She's only the first," she said. "Mhairi wants to join, as well. There will be others, and some of them will die. Maybe most of them. And I have to let it happen."

"The other Wardens will be there to perform the ceremony," Leliana suggested, but Talia shook her head.

"I recruited her," she said simply. "I owe it to her to see it through. It's going to feel strange, though," she added, the bemused expression returning, "being her commander, if she lives."

"You have more than earned it," Leliana told her, reluctantly stepping out of their embrace and retrieving her pack. "The others should be ready by now."

At the palace, they were shown to their room – which, Leliana noted with pleasure, was not only private, but included a bathing chamber – then to a council chamber, where Fergus, Anora and Riordan awaited them beside a large table on which was spread a map of Ferelden, along with markers that presumably indicated the location of military forces. It was a tight fit, but the Queen had requested the presence of all of the companions, even Shayle, who wedged herself into one corner.

"Ser Riordan has written his missive to the Orlesian Wardens," Anora informed them once the door had been closed. She had taken time to change out of the bloody, borrowed dress for one from her own wardrobe: crimson satin with gold brocade at the skirt and bodice. "I have officials at the dock identifying the fastest ship to convey it to Val Royeaux. Birds have been sent out to all the major holdings with notices ordering mobilization of all fighting forces; hopefully, this will mean that things will be well under way by the time the banns and arls reach their lands. Messenger ships will also be sent to the leaders of the Free Marches, Antiva, Nevarra and Rivain, requesting troops beyond the Grey Wardens of those nations. If Ferelden falls, the Blight will threaten the whole of the south."

Fergus nodded. "The forces of the rebellion should be gathered in the Bannorn. I'll ask Temulun to send messengers to find them and summon them to Denerim."

"How long until all of our forces are assembled?" Talia wanted to know, studying the map with interest. They had traversed much of it on foot over the past year, Leliana realized. Seeing it spread out before them made it clear just how much territory they had covered, and how much stood to be lost.

"Ten days to two weeks," Fergus replied. "If the Wardens come by sea, they should arrive within that time, as well. What about the dwarves and the Dalish?"

"We'll need to send word," Talia replied, leaning forward and touching a finger to the map at Orzammar. "Could the ship to Val Royeaux drop someone off at Jader? They could reach Orzammar from there in a day or so."

"That can be done easily," Anora confirmed, looking pleased.

Talia nodded. "Oghren, can you go?"

"On a _boat_?" the dwarf exclaimed, not looking pleased at all, leaning in to peer at the map, staring at the blue of the Waking Sea. "Can't swim," he grunted.

"Don't jump overboard, then," Talia advised him, though there was sympathy in her eyes. The memory of her brush with death in the Deep Roads still haunted her whenever they were in the vicinity of a significant body of water. "I can send someone else -"

"Nah." Oghren shook his head, his jaw set, blue eyes peering up at the Warden from beneath bushy eyebrows. "I'll do it."

"I could go with him," Wynne offered. "If he did fall overboard, I should be able to get him out."

Oghren's face brightened, but then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You just wanna keep me from drinkin'!" he accused her.

"There is that, too," the mage admitted, unruffled.

"If you're sure," Talia said hesitantly, looking pleased at the notion, but clearly worried about the older woman.

Wynne nodded. "I've always been fond of ocean voyages," she said easily, but her eyes were serious, even as she smiled.

Talia regarded her for a long moment, then nodded. "All right, then. The Dalish should be gathering just south of Dragon's Peak. I can go -"

"No." Anora's voice was firm. "Your place, and that of your fellow Wardens, is here, developing a plan for battle. I realize that you are not subject to my command," she went on in a more placating tone, "but I respectfully request that you consider my words."

The frown slowly faded from Talia's face, and she sighed. "You're right, Your Majesty," she conceded, glancing around. "Zev, Shayle? Can you two do it?"

"A chance to see the lovely Keeper again?" Zevran smiled broadly and bowed with a flourish. "It would be my pleasure."

"Trapped with Zevran's ceaseless chatter, and then forced to endure the stares of the elves? You are fortunate that I like you, Talia." Shayle's uncovering of her memories had resulted in a subtle shift in the golem's personality. Her dry sarcasm remained largely intact, but with increasing frequency, she had begun to refer to her companions by name, as though recovering her own identity had given her a new awareness and acceptance of that of others.

"Yes, I am," Talia agreed without a hint of irony. "Anything else?"

"Temulun said that Chagatai has encountered some of the other Chasind," Fergus said. "He thinks they can convince them to put the clan rivalries aside long enough to fight the darkspawn." He paused, giving his sister a pointed look before adding, "Evidently, killing Flemeth has given the Otter Clan a boost in status."

With all eyes on her, Talia had the sense not to look smug, saying only, "That could be a big help; they're skilled warriors. What do you think the best way to deploy them would be?"

"That's going to depend on our strategy," he replied. "Once the Wardens have arrived, we will need to decide where the best place to engage them is."

"If I may?" Cauthrien stepped forward, looking between Anora and Talia. She had been silent since they had left Fort Drakon, watching and listening, and her demeanor now was diffident. When both Queen and Warden-Commander nodded, she touched the map. "According to the most recent reports, the Southron Hills are lost," she said in a matter-of-fact tone, tracing an area from Ostagar to Lothering, along the West Road to South Reach, then south to the northern edge of the Brecilian Forest. "The land is tainted, the people either dead or fled. There is nothing there to save or harm. I suggest that a small force, no more than a few hundred, and well supplied, be used to draw the darkspawn out of the Korcari Wilds, along the ruined territory to us."

She tapped Denerim decisively. "This city is built to withstand a siege. The walls are thick and strong, easily defended by archers and siege weapons. There are numerous public wells for water, and we can be resupplied by sea. Darkspawn do not build ships, am I correct?" This last was to Riordan, who nodded his confirmation, listening to the knight with interest. "We can bring in reinforcements by that route, as well, then … and others can be landed in the north -" She touched Highever and Amaranthine. " - and attack the flanks and rear." She looked to Fergus. "This would be an ideal use of the Chasind, as well. If we can keep the bulk of the darkspawn focused on Denerim, perhaps we can save the parts of Ferelden that remain untouched by the Blight."

"An acceptable strategy," Sten pronounced solemnly. "Assuming a defensive position until we have the advantage of numbers will preserve our warriors for an offensive thrust."

"It is a good strategy," Riordan confirmed as Cauthrien regarded the qunari warily, "but I must warn you: a Blight is a war of attrition, and we will likely not have the advantage of numbers for many years." He looked to each of them in turn, his eyes solemn. "The first Blight lasted nearly two centuries. We've improved," he added with a wry smile, seeing the alarm that his words provoked in Anora and Fergus, "but the fourth Blight still lasted a dozen years, and decimated Antiva, Rivain, the Anderfels and the Free Marches. We must kill enough darkspawn to force the Archdemon to join the fight directly, rather than commanding its minions from afar. Only then will it get close enough for the Grey Wardens to slay it. Legends of past Blights say that the Grey Wardens used griffins to find and meet the Archdemon in the air, but if they were true, they no longer exist, so we must draw the Archdemon to us. That will likely take many years, and cost many lives. You must be prepared for that."

"We are," Talia said softly, her eyes meeting Leliana's, fingers lacing with those of the Orlesian. "It takes what it takes, but I think that Cauthrien's plan is a good one that at least gives us a chance of saving the rest of Ferelden."

"Agreed," the senior Warden said.

"Then that is what we will do," Anora said. Her face was pale, her expression grave, but her words were decisive. "We will decide as forces arrive how best to deploy them, and begin laying in supplies against a siege. How do you plan to utilize the Dalish and the dwarves?" This was directed at Talia, who looked surprised, then uncertain.

"I think that Riordan -"

"You are the Warden-Commander in Ferelden," he disagreed with a gentle smile, "and you have done well so far. I see no reason to supplant you, but I will freely offer my counsel."

Talia looked heartened by the assurance, but still uncertain in the face of the greater experience of Riordan and Cauthrien. She did not see in herself what was so plain to others, and Leliana gave her hand a gentle squeeze, got a grateful squeeze in return as her Warden began to speak.

"For a siege, I think the Dalish archers should be on the wall," she began, looking between Riordan and Cauthrien, both of whom nodded their agreement. "The dwarves know more about fighting darkspawn than anyone, but the sky might scare them. Maybe use them at night until they get used to it?" She glanced to Oghren for confirmation.

"That'll help," the dwarf grunted. "The stars and moon look kinda like deep mushrooms overhead, if you don't look straight up."

Talia nodded, then went on, "Once they're acclimated, we can integrate them with the other forces." She looked at Anora and Fergus, her eyes serious. "There are going to be people who don't want to fight alongside elves and dwarves," she warned them.

"I'll issue a proclamation," Anora said at once, but Fergus looked dubious.

"That will likely suffice for the dwarves," he told her, "but for the elves," he shook his head. "For all the outrage that news of the Tevinter slavers brought, most of the nobles in Ferelden give little if any thought to the elves, and a few -" He broke off, his expression grim. "Do you remember the argument that I had with Vaughan Urien?" he asked Talia.

She nodded, her eyes narrowing. "Was that -"

"It was," he confirmed. "Vaughan and a few of the others wanted to have some 'fun' in the alienage." The look on his face made it clear what the nature of the proposed fun had been. "I refused, but when I told him that I'd summon the guard if they persisted, he laughed at me and said they'd be happy to join in." He paused, shrugged with a mirthless smile. "So I threatened to thrash him, and that ended it for the time, but I doubt for long ... and I doubt that conditions improved after Howe took over." He glanced to Anora, whose expression was one of dismay and revulsion. "The average Fereldan will not be able to distinguish between the elves they see and look down on every day and the Dalish."

"Then they will be dealt with according to their actions," Anora replied, her features hardening into anger. "I knew conditions were bad -"

"They're worse than bad," Talia informed her flatly. "The alienage at Highever was poor," she admitted, shame touching her face, "but Father and Mother wouldn't have kenneled a dog in the houses in the Denerim alienage. They were terrified of us, just because we were humans, and most of them looked as though they hadn't had a decent meal in weeks."

"That is the norm in Orlais, I'm afraid," Leliana offered. "Elves are considered to be little more than animals." Talia scowled, liking the statement no better than she had when Leliana had first made it in the alienage.

"Perhaps I can make use of that, then," Anora mused, a wry smile touching her lips. "Most of the nobility is quite vehemently against seeming even remotely similar to Orlais. That will be a task for after the Blight, however," she went on briskly. "For now, I will make it clear that any crimes committed against any elf will be punished." She looked to Fergus. "The officers of our military should understand that they will be held responsible for the behavior of those under their command."

"They will," he promised, glancing from the map to the window, where the afternoon sun could be seen through the thin linen curtains. "The tides will be turning soon; the ships will want to sail with them."

"The scribes should have the missives completed by now," Anora said. "I will gather my emissaries and see them off at the docks."

"Wynne, Oghren, can you be ready in half an hour?" Talia asked.

The mage nodded, while the dwarf gave her an odd look. "Ready now," he grunted.

"Don't you need to pack some clean clothes?" she asked him.

"What for?" He seemed genuinely puzzled, and Wynne lifted her eyes briefly heavenward.

"Just do it," she told him. Oghren glowered at her and stumped off, grumbling under his breath.

"No booze, clean clothes … next thing, they'll be wantin' me to take a _bath!_ "

Talia watched him go, shaking her head in rueful amusement. "I could order him to," she offered Wynne.

"I think that would take more time than we have," the mage replied as she moved to the door. "I'll just … stay upwind."

"Shayle and I will depart this evening, as well," Zevran said. "Come, Shayle. You can help me decide which garb would be most pleasing to Keeper Lanaya."

The floor shook a bit as the golem moved to follow. "As your ultimate intention is _no_ garb, I fail to see the purpose in such a choice," Shayle intoned.

"The pleasure lies in the chase, my large friend."

Leliana had to suppress a smile at Anora's expression. It was the Queen's first real exposure to the dynamics of the group as a whole.

"You have assembled an eclectic company," she remarked, still looking bemused. "I should like to hear more about the process when we have the time."

"I'll be happy to accommodate you once the Archdemon is dead, Your Majesty," Talia replied courteously, adding, with an affectionate smile for her lover, "although Leliana is much better at telling tales."

"May we all be granted ample time to enjoy them, then," Anora said with an answering smile, a bit wistful at the edges. She glanced to Fergus, her eyes questioning.

"I need to meet with Temulun about scouting out the location and movements of the darkspawn," he told her.

Morrigan had stationed herself against the wall, near the window, and remained silent for the whole of the planning session. She stirred now. "I would offer my assistance to them, if they will accept," she said, looking uncomfortable as all eyes turned to her. "Much more can be seen from aloft, and from a much greater distance," she added obliquely.

"You can … fly?" Anora asked her in surprise.

"I … can assume the shape of a bird," the witch replied warily, "and in that shape, I can indeed fly as a bird does."

"I did not know that mages could do such things." The Queen seemed torn between wonder and caution.

"Tis a skill that seems to have been lost to your Circle mages," Morrigan replied, visibly reining in what had undoubtedly begun as a sarcastic retort, her voice level, "but I assure you, 'tis well within their capabilities, and does not require blood magic."

"She's no maleficar," Alistair spoke up. He'd been quiet, as well, likely out of the desire to reinforce his renouncement of his claim to the throne and its duties. His hostility to the witch, which had veered close to hatred in the heated hours following the discovery of Talia's disappearance in Redcliffe, had mellowed over the ensuing weeks. There was neither warmth nor antipathy in his voice now, merely a statement of fact, and again, what would have drawn a biting response from Morrigan a few weeks earlier only resulted in the witch giving him an odd look, saying nothing and looking even more ill at ease.

"We likely wouldn't have made it to Lothering after Ostagar without her help in avoiding the darkspawn," Talia added, regarding her two companions curiously. "It's definitely an advantage."

Anora nodded and looked to Fergus. "I'll speak with Temulun," he promised.

The next several days were spent in an odd mix between a whirlwind of activity and coiled sense of waiting and expectation. Fergus took command of the forces that began arriving in Denerim, while Anora began marshaling the civilian population to aid in the defense of Denerim. Buckets were gathered by the wells to fight the fires that were inevitable in a siege; food stores were hastily brought in from the surrounding lands; infirmaries were set up to care for the wounded.

Talia and Alistair spent the time inspecting the city's defenses with Cauthrien, Sten and Riordan. Weaknesses in the wall that surrounded Denerim were identified and shored up. Long unused trebuchets and ballistas were repaired and positioned at strategic points; protecting the harbor was a paramount consideration, as the city's ability to resupply once the siege began would depend on ships being able to dock and unload cargo and reinforcements safely. Arrows were stockpiled on the walk atop the wall.

Leliana spent much of her time in the Chantry, helping the Sisters to encourage an increasingly frightened populace. Refugees that had fled to Denerim to escape the destruction of the Blight now found themselves in a city that would soon be under attack by the darkspawn. Some made plans to flee Denerim by land or sea, but others had no place to go. Of those who stayed, some would surely die in the coming weeks; she couldn't save them, but she could brighten these dark hours, lift spirits with songs and stories, hold orphaned children in her lap, hug grieving mothers as they cried. It was a painful duty, but one that she had missed since leaving Lothering.

Evenings were spent in council, reviewing the events of that day, planning the activities of the next. Nights were a blessed reprieve from all of it. Talia might tease Leliana for her nightly use of the bath, but she seldom turned down an invitation to join her lover. Secure behind the walls of the palace, with alert guards patrolling the grounds and halls, there was little need for vigilance, and yet, Leliana often found herself awake long after Talia had succumbed to sleep, watching over her Warden's slumber and trying to still the whispers of fear that refused to be silenced.

Welcome news came at the end of the first week, with the arrival of the vanguard of the Dalish clans and a raven from Val Royeaux bearing the message that over a hundred Grey Wardens were bound by ship to Denerim, while three score more rode with six hundred chevaliers overland, carrying a missive from Empress Celene to formalize the alliance between Ferelden and Orlais against the Blight.

The celebration that followed the news went on well into the night, but two days later, the reprieve came to an end with the cry of a hawk overhead as Talia and Leliana walked along the battlements with a contingent of Dalish hunters, planning the best places to deploy their skilled archers. Talia glanced upward, then motioned for the others to step back as the hawk spiraled down from the morning sky, the winged shape blurring at the very last moment into Morrigan's form, eliciting startled cries from the elves, who hastily backed away still further.

Morrigan ignored them; the witch looked exhausted, swaying visibly until Talia reached out to steady her. She made no objection when Leliana stepped in to offer support on her other side, and the bard knew that the news could not be good.

"It seems that we will not be required to lure the darkspawn to Denerim," she said when she had caught her breath. "We encountered the darkspawn perhaps three days' travel out of Lothering; if they keep moving as they have, they will arrive here in three more. Maybe less."

"How many?" Talia wanted to know.

Golden eyes regarded her gravely, without a hint of their usual sardonic gleam. "The Deep Roads have emptied," Morrigan told her. "The darkspawn are without number. Even from the air, I could not see the end of them … and the Archdemon moves with them."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone else's jaw drop in the game when Anora announced that the Joining was potentially fatal? How the hell do you know, lady? Shit, now we have to conscript the whole freaking Landsmeet. On the upside: Morrigan, now you have plenty of choices for the dark ritual! Arl Bryland is kinda hot ...
> 
> *shrugs* Ah, well. Sprang Cauthrien & settled her fate, got Starfang back and settled the question of how everybody knows how/when to show up when I haven't been carting messengers from each group around with them the way I did in the game. Because the dudes lurking outside camp every night were just creepy.
> 
> Plus a wee bit of private time for Talia & Leliana, because it's been a while since they've gotten that and they've been very patient with me.
> 
> And the strategy meeting ran long because once I got everybody back in the same scene for the first time in forever, they all wanted to talk …
> 
> And getting down to business at the end. No, Riordan hasn't brought up the Big Secret yet; I'll be getting to my own take on how that comes about in the next chapter or two.


	66. Time Runs Out

Talia found Leliana atop the wall, staring toward the southwest, where the darkening of the sky that had first become visible that morning continued to grow, black clouds roiling ever higher, casting the land beneath into shadows that would allow the darkspawn to move as freely in the daytime as they did at night. They were the Archdemon's doing: a bare hint of the power that the corrupted old god might one day reclaim and command.

She and Alistair had spent many hours closeted with Riordan over the past days, learning what he knew of the Blights of old. What he'd had to say did not bode well for Ferelden. What the darkspawn lacked in skill and tactics, they made up for in sheer numbers. The Archdemon would hurl its minions against the armies of the surface without respite and without care as to how many of its own forces were killed in the process. The darkspawn who died would be replaced by still more darkspawn who did not sleep and knew neither mercy nor fear, and if it took time for the broodmothers to produce more, it was still only a fraction of the time that would take to raise a human, elf or dwarf from babe to soldier.

The best that they could hope for, once the other Wardens arrived, was to tie up the darkspawn hoard, and allow as much of the civilian population as possible to be evacuated by sea and land. Denerim would fall eventually, and the rest of Ferelden would likely follow, while the Archdemon stayed well back from the front lines. Only after the darkspawn numbers had been greatly reduced, a process that would take years, would it grow desperate enough to join the fight directly, allowing the Wardens the opportunity to kill it … somehow. Thus far, the Orlesian Warden had been frustratingly vague on the details of just how that deed was accomplished, saying only that they would discuss the matter after the others had arrived, but there had been more than enough to ponder in terms of immediate strategic needs to keep either of them focused for long on an eventuality that was likely years in the future.

Morrigan's arrival, and the news that she bore, while not a complete surprise, had definitely been an unwelcome acceleration of their anticipated timeline. More people, and still more, crowded into Denerim as word spread of the darkspawn advance, straining existing supplies to the limit. As many as possible had been sent north, to Amaranthine and Highever; if Denerim fell, these folk would hopefully have time to escape, either by sea or over the Frostbacks.

The bulk of the Fereldan forces had made it; only the dwarves were lacking. The contingent of mages and templars from Kinloch Hold had arrived the previous night, and the last of the rebels from the Bannorn had straggled in this morning, followed quickly by the scouting party from the Otter Clan. The Chasind warriors were hard to fatigue; Talia had seen that for herself on the trek into and out of the Korcari Wilds, but Temulun and the rest were teetering on the brink of exhaustion, having pushed themselves ceaselessly to stay ahead of the indefatigable progress of the darkspawn, managing it only because they ran, while their foes maintained a slower pace, allowing them to snatch an hour or two of rest here and there.

"They do not stop to camp, or to eat," Temulun had reported grimly. "Night or day, they walk, and kill whatever they find." Fortunately, the land they crossed had for the most part been laid waste by previous incursions, but that blessing would be a short one; by Temulun's estimation, they would arrive outside Denerim the following morning.

Talia slipped an arm around her lover's waist now, her gaze following Leliana's. The clouds had not been present at Ostagar; Alistair had confirmed what her own hazy memories had suggested, and Riordan believed that the absence of that key proof of an Archdemon's power had likely been the reason that Duncan had not pressed harder to convince the dubious Fereldan commanders that the darkspawn threat was indeed a true Blight. No doubt at all about that now, Talia reflected sardonically. Even Brego felt it; putting his forepaws on the battlements, the mabari stared intently toward the west, lips skinning back from his teeth and a low growl rumbling in his chest.

"It is like my dream," Leliana whispered, leaning into Talia. "A darkness in the distance, growing, devouring everything in its path, blotting out even the sun."

The sun would indeed be hidden by the advancing clouds before too much longer, as the afternoon waned toward evening. Some who saw it disappear would never look upon it again. Talia clenched her teeth, willing the bleak thoughts to disperse. The dream would not be fulfilled in its entirety. Her bard would not be one of those consumed by the growing darkness. Talia would not allow it.

"You are not alone," she said, gently turning Leliana away from the looming darkness to face her, resting her forehead against the bard's.

"I know," Leliana replied, giving her a wan smile. "Nor are you." She raised up on tiptoe, the brush of her lips gentle, one hand coming up to trace along Talia's cheek as she drew back. She did that often now, blue eyes searching Talia's face with the same wistful intensity that had been present in the moments before they confronted Marjolaine. Talia wanted desperately to be able to promise her love that her fears were unfounded, that they would both survive the coming war and that she would never leave her.

And she couldn't. She had already broken that promise once, the memory of her failure a bitter taste that could not be banished. Never again would she make a promise to her bard that she could not keep.

"I love you," she murmured instead, because that was a promise that no power in the world could make her break.

"I love you, too," Leliana replied, and Talia kissed her again, not giving a damn about the sentries atop the walls or the folk below making preparations, because _this_ was why she fought, and this was why she was determined to survive the fight.

Taking Leliana's hand, she drew her toward the stairs; Brego sneezed once and, with a final glance to the west, moved to follow. "Come on," she told the bard. "Let's get something to eat, and -"

She stopped as a sudden rumble rose up beneath her feet, continuing for a few seconds, then tapering off.

"What in the Fade was that?" the nearest sentry demanded as the rest of them glanced around apprehensively. Talia shook her head, exchanging a wide-eyed glance with Leliana as she stepped away from her, her right hand dropping to Starfang's hilt, but before she could respond, another rumble arose, fainter and more distant.

"I have heard that the earth moves like this sometimes in the Anderfels," Leliana offered, but her expression didn't suggest that she considered it a likely explanation.

"Darkspawn are under the ground," another of the guards said, giving voice to the thought going through most of their minds. "What if -"

A third tremor shook the ground, this one almost underfoot, and Talia staggered a bit on the steps, hearing cries of alarm and fear rising up around her.

"Look!" The shout from behind brought her back to the top of the wall, staring over the battlements at the cloud of dust billowing some hundred yards distant as the ground collapsed inward, leaving a hole perhaps ten yards across.

"Archers ready!" Talia shouted, aware of Leliana beside her, taking up one of the spare longbows and nocking an arrow. They hadn't planned for this, never given any thought that the darkspawn might come from below. The other rumbles … had they already broken through elsewhere in the city? "Sergeant, get some runners ready," she ordered what appeared to be the most senior officer on that section of the wall, "but hold them until I give the word." She couldn't hear any fighting going on behind her, but the agitation on the wall was spreading to the folk below, edging rapidly toward panic.

Shapes appeared in the dust, emerging from the yawning pit, and Talia strained her eyes, trying to make out details. Genlocks? No …

"Hold your arrows! Hold!" she called out, turning her head to repeat it twice more, sagging against the battlements and willing her racing heart to slow. "Drop a ladder."

As a stout rope ladder was unfurled down the wall, she turned to the sergeant. "Send a runner to the palace; tell them that the dwarves have arrived."

"Aye, Warden-Commander," he replied, looking almost giddy with relief.

"Stay," she ordered Brego as she and Leliana descended the ladder and went to meet the new arrivals.

"They know how to make an entrance," Leliana remarked in an amused tone, though her complexion still bore the pallor of those moments of heart-gripping fear.

"That they do," Talia agreed, drawing deep, slow breaths as they walked. Adrenaline still surged through her veins, trying to turn the fear into anger. "You're early," she called to Oghren as they approached. "We weren't expecting you for a few more days."

"Didn't want to miss the fight," the dwarf replied with a grin. "Deep Roads were empty, so we made good time. Even got to map out some routes that'd been abandoned for the last thousand years."

"No darkspawn, then?" Talia couldn't blame Leliana for wanting to be sure, even though the relaxed demeanor of the dwarves emerging from the hole made it clear that no threat was imminent below.

"Down there?" Oghren looked surprised at the question, then shook his head. "Naw. Harrowmont sent out scouts after we reported seein' them headin' south, and they followed 'em all the way to the Wilds. Nothin' down there right now but deepstalkers and nugs." He released a sonorous belch and patted his belly. "Plenty of good eatin'!" he said cheerfully.

"What was all the noise and shaking about?" Talia asked him. "Felt like the whole damn city was about to fall into a hole."

"That?" Bushy red eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Just closin' off the tunnels that run under the city, in case the darkspawn get sneaky. Nothin' to worry about; the sappers know what they're doin'. They could drop a wall next to a deepstalker nest and never crack an egg."

"Little warning next time, please?" Alistair panted as he jogged up, looking as pale as Talia had felt minutes earlier. "You nearly started a stampede in there!" He jabbed a thumb in the direction of Denerim.

"Stampede?" Oghren regarded him in bafflement before comprehension lit up his face. "Hah! You thought we were darkspawn, didja?"

"Yes, we did," Talia confirmed, shaking her head in exasperation, "and you came close to being a pincushion." She glanced past him, a new concern arising. "Where's Wynne?"

"Down there," Oghren grunted, nodding toward the hole. "She was havin' trouble keepin' up, so we made a chair outta some spear hafts and carried her. We'll bring her up once we get the ramp solid."

"I'll bet that went over well," Alistair predicted.

"Some of 'em grumbled at first," the dwarf agreed, "but after she healed us up a few times, they shut up. No darkspawn," he reiterated, seeing the question they were about to ask. "Cave-ins, mostly. Shortest way wasn't always the safest, but we did all right with her to patch us up."

"More than all right, I'd say," Talia told him. The arrival of the dwarves meant that their army was as complete as it was going to be until the other Wardens and the chevaliers arrived. "How many came with you?"

"A thousand or so," Oghren replied. "Mostly Legion of the Dead, 'cause they're used to following the darkspawn to the surface if they hafta, so it don't bother them as much. Harrowmont granted a dis- dispa- permission fer anyone who fights the darkspawn to go to the surface without losin' their caste, so we should have a few thousand more in a few weeks."

"A thousand is a good start," Talia said approvingly. The steadily increasing number of dwarves emerging from the hole were indeed largely clad in the distinctive armor of the Legion, though others were among them, some of whom were familiar.

"Wardens," Baizyl Harrowmont greeted them as he approached with Kardol at his side. "Our King sends his greetings, and his assurance that this is only the first of the forces that Orzammar will send against the Blight."

"Good to see you, Baizyl, Kardol," Talia replied. "You got here just in time; the darkspawn are expected to reach Denerim early tomorrow."

A feral grin creased the Legion commander's tattooed face. "Good. Where do you want us?"

"We're going to be fighting defensively until the other Wardens arrive," she told them. "We want to try to keep the darkspawn tied up at Denerim for as long as we can."

"A siege, then?" Kardol nodded his understanding. "I'll leave some scouts stationed below. We've already blocked off all the tunnels leading under the city, but if they try to break through down there, I've got a few more charges set that'll dump the harbor in on them, flood the tunnels."

"That … sounds risky," Alistair observed, looking apprehensive.

"Not nearly as risky as darkspawn popping up under your feet," Kardol countered. "The ground here is solid, and most of the tunnels are deep. There shouldn't be much collapse at the surface."

" _Much?_ "

Dark eyes fixed on Alistair. "People are going to die in this fight, Warden," Kardol said bluntly. "The only way to win is to kill the darkspawn a lot faster than they kill us, and keep killing them until the Archdemon decides to get close enough to give you Wardens a shot at it. If you want any chance at all at saving the rest of Ferelden, then we have to do that sooner, rather than later."

"We understand, Kardol," Talia said quietly, slanting her eyes toward Alistair, who looked no less pleased, but nodded grimly. Containing the darkspawn at Denerim indefinitely was a fool's dream, but until they gained reinforcements from other nations, it was the best strategy they had. "It's a good failsafe, but you do need to discuss it with the King and Queen so that we can incorporate it into the overall battle plan."

"If you can give us an idea which areas are more likely to collapse, we can try to get people away from them before it happens," Leliana put in.

"We can do that," Kardol confirmed, "but if we're gonna do it before the darkspawn get here, we'd better get moving." Turning, he bellowed to his subordinates: "Everybody on the surface except the sentries, and I don't want to hear anybody whining about falling into the sodding sky!"

They headed back into the city, accompanied by Oghren, Baizyl and Kardol, but they'd scarcely made their way past the wide-eyed onlookers crowding around the gate when a shout rose above the general din.

"Wardens! Wardens!"

"Now what?" Talia wondered beneath her breath, turning as a young man shouldered his way through the gawkers. In the days since the Landsmeet, the ever-growing population of Denerim had quite plainly pinned their hopes on the Grey Wardens, resulting in Talia, Alistair and Riordan being called on to address crises both small and large, the most frequent involving sightings of darkspawn in the city (to date, their investigations had yielded two cat fights, one broken shutter flapping in the wind, three muggings, seven drunks, four pranks by children and one jilted suitor trying to scare his lover back into his arms, but no darkspawn). With the uproar that the tremors had caused, she fully expected the latest summons to involve more of the same, until she recognized Aedric Barnes, one of the freeholders who had been with the rebellion in the Bannorn.

"What is it?" she asked as he staggered to a stop. The rebels had seen darkspawn up close and personal; they wouldn't be spooking at shadows.

"Trouble," he panted, resting his hands on his knees for a moment. "Come on! Quickly!"

Pausing only long enough for Talia to summon Brego from where he had obediently waited for her, they found the rebels and the Chasind in a tense standoff against half a dozen templars, who, though well outnumbered, looked ready to fight. "Get Fergus," she ordered Aedric, but she plainly couldn't wait for him to arrive. "What's going on?" she asked, stepping in between the opposing factions, though she suspected she already knew.

"Apostates, Warden-Commander," one of the templars said tersely, pointing past the defiant row of fighters to Chagatai and two other men standing behind them. "We need to take them into custody, for the safety of the people."

"Go ahead and try it," one of the Bannorn men challenged him, echoed by his comrades.

"Enough," Talia warned them off before turning to the templars. "The Chantry has no authority over the Chasind," she told them, deciding to head that off first.

"They're heathen savages!" the senior among them, a dark haired woman with severe features, exclaimed. "They commune with spirits and demons, taking no precautions whatsoever! What's to keep them from turning into –"

"Abominations?" Talia finished for her, irritation sparking. "Knight-Lieutenant, I saw far more abominations in the damned Circle tower than I ever did in the Korcari Wilds."

"We actually didn't see any in the Wilds," Alistair put in helpfully. "Lost count in the tower, though."

The templar glared at them; Talia returned it with interest. She recognized a couple of the Lieutenant's companions as among those who had hidden behind a locked door awaiting a Right of Annulment to slaughter every man, woman and child in Kinloch Hold, blood mage or no. "You will not take him," she said, steel in her voice.

"For now," the Lieutenant conceded, resentment hot in her eyes, "but you cannot deny our jurisdiction over the other two, particularly that one!" She pointed to the tall, blonde man, who watched her with a wary defiance.

"Missed me that much, Rylock?" he taunted her. "I already told you, you're not my type."

"That's not helping," Talia snapped at him, trying to think of a way to defuse the situation until Fergus arrived. "Knight-Lieutenant –"

"Sketch?" Leliana's startled query brought Talia around to see the bard pushing past the Bannorn's fighters to embrace the elvish man who stood beside the blonde mage.

"Leliana?" he stared up at her in disbelief. "What are you doing here?"

"It's a long story –" she began.

"You know this apostate?" Rylock demanded, starting to move forward. "Have you any idea of the penalties for aiding –"

She went no further, eyes nearly crossing to watch the tip of Starfang hovering beneath her chin.

"You will definitely not take her," Talia informed her, her words measured and razor edged, undercut by Brego's growl. "She is an ally to the Grey Wardens, as are the mages. I will vouch for their behavior personally."

"As will I," Fergus announced as he strode into the middle of the hostilities, flanked by a contingent of guards, with Riordan and Morrigan close behind. He gave his younger sister a reproving look as he stopped; she met his eyes calmly, refusing to wilt (though she did sheath her sword). "Knight-Lieutenant," he turned to address Rylock calmly, "I have personally fought beside both Sketch and Anders for many months, and Chagatai for even longer. They are indeed steadfast allies, and exhibit full control over their magic. You have my word –"

"A King is not above Chantry law!" Rylock exclaimed heatedly. "Would you repeat the crimes of Loghain Mac Tir? Mages _must_ remain under the supervision of the Chantry!"

Riordan caught Talia's eye, his lips moving silently. It took a moment for her to understand. "I invoke the Right of Conscription," she spoke up. "These men will join the Grey Wardens." No sooner had she said the words than the full import of them struck her. Her stomach folded in on itself, but she gave no sign, standing firm beside Fergus.

And still, the Knight-Lieutenant resisted. "No!" Rylock shook her head angrily. "Bad enough that we must allow this … this _witch_ ," she flapped a gauntleted hand at Morrigan, who eyed her disdainfully, "to walk free! _He_ will not be allowed to hide within the Grey Wardens' ranks! _Seven times_ he has escaped from the tower, defied the Maker's rightful authority!"

"And now, he will be the Wardens' problem." Knight-Commander Greagoir said as he shouldered his way through the growing crowd of onlookers, giving Anders a rueful look before turning a commanding eye on his subordinates.

Rylock was aghast. "Ser, we can't just let them –"

"We can," he replied firmly, "and we must. The Right of Conscription is absolute. Stand down, Lieutenant, and return to the barracks." When she did not immediately comply, he added, in a harder tone, "That is an order." After they had gone, he heaved a sigh. He looked older than he had at the tower, Talia realized, aged well beyond the few months that had elapsed since Uldred's uprising. "I apologize for the behavior of my templars, Your Majesty, Warden-Commander," he offered.

"We're all on edge, Knight-Commander," Fergus replied, giving Talia a pointed look. "And I will repeat my assurances that I have found both Anders and Sketch to be valiant and trustworthy allies."

"I am glad of that," Greagoir said, regarding the mage with a mixture of disappointment and resignation. "I hope that he continues to prove worthy of your faith in him. Be well, Anders."

"What, no flowers as a sendoff?" Anders shot back jauntily, but there was a bitter cast in the hazel eyes as he watched the Knight-Commander's retreating back. "So, that's it?" he turned to Talia and Fergus. "As simple as that, we're Wardens?"

There was nothing simple about it. Talia couldn't look at Leliana.

"The ceremony will not take place until the other Wardens arrive." Riordan stepped into the breach when Talia did not immediately answer, his expression uncompromising as he went on, "But from this moment on, you will be treated as Wardens … which means that you will obey the orders of your commanding officer to the letter."

"What if they do not wish to join?" Leliana asked, her features composed, but her face a shade paler than usual.

Riordan gave her an odd, measuring glance before answering. "Only as Grey Wardens can we offer them immunity from the templars."

"Leliana, it's all right," Sketch told her earnestly. "I don't mind. It might be nice to be able to actually stay in one place without hiding for a change." He faced Talia, squaring his shoulders. "Thank you for doing what you did. I'll try to be a good Warden."

Talia made herself nod, still unable to meet Leliana's eyes. She remembered the name: Sketch was one of Leliana's friends from Orlais, part of Marjolaine's coterie, who had escaped from the dungeons alongside her. And Talia had just condemned him to an untimely death, whether quickly or slowly. "I'll gladly welcome you as a brother," she said, hiding the sick feeling away behind a friendly face. "Leliana has told me about you, and what you did for her."

"She did?" Sketch looked surprised, then blushed, looking uncomfortable. "It wasn't that much, really," he mumbled. "I'm just … glad to see her alive and well."

"Seven times?" Alistair was regarding Anders with a bit of awe. "You must really hate the circle. Not that I blame you. I wanted to jump out a window myself most of the time we were there."

"That?" Anders waved a dismissive hand. "That was just a show that they put on for distinguished guests. Most of the time it's much, _much_ nicer." Again the bitterness beneath the insouciant words. "Private cells and all the bread and water you can eat." Talia exchanged a startled glance with Alistair, but before either of them could speak up, he was off again. "But that's behind me now; I'm to be a Warden now, and as Sketch said, I'll try to be a good one. I can't say that following orders is my strong suit, but your brother – excuse me – His Majesty," he dipped a flourishing bow toward Fergus, who was looking on with the air of one who had seen this performance before, " – can tell you, if you treat me like a person, instead of a rabid animal, I promise to return the favor."

Talia met his eyes and nodded. "Fair enough," she told him, turning to her brother. "They should probably stay at the palace," she said to Fergus. "I don't trust that Knight-Lieutenant."

"Nor do I," Fergus agreed. "I think we should – what is it?"

Talia didn't hear him. She had turned instinctively to Riordan, only to find the older Warden looking back at her with a disoriented expression. He didn't know what he was sensing, she realized, but she had felt it before, as had Alistair … and it was coming fast.

"Get under cover!" she shouted, pushing Leliana and the mages toward one of the stone buildings as the Archdemon swooped out of the western sky, clouds boiling forward in its wake to obscure the sun, turning afternoon to dusk in a heartbeat. Screams of terror filled the air as the crowds attempted to flee in panic, shoving and jostling in a blind drive to escape.

As Leliana ducked into the dubious shelter, Talia spun in search of Fergus; his guards had already pushed him under cover, though the shop that they had chosen seemed no more secure than the other building. The Archdemon swooped low, its thunderous roar drowning out the screams; flames burst from the gaping maw, searing a blazing path through the stampeding crowd, igniting several buildings.

_No!_ Sweeping Starfang from its sheathe, Talia ran forward with Brego at her side, heedless of Leliana's cry, aware of Alistair and Riordan doing the same. Without the press of countless darkspawn nearby, the song rang clear in her mind, set every nerve afire with longing and loathing … but there was more. As it wheeled back, she could feel its sudden awareness of their presence, feel the surprise, the hate … the _fear_. Another gout of flame burst forth, and the three of them flung themselves in different directions, narrowly avoiding incineration, and the flames struck the wall with a ground-shaking detonation that sent a section of stones flying.

"This way!" Riordan shouted wildly; she and Alistair both followed without hesitation, racing along on a course that paralleled that of the Archdemon as it rose up and turned to dive upon the city again.

"Fire!" Given the multiple conflagrations, Fergus' shout was not unexpected, but as the monster descended again, two ballista bolts flew upward from the fortifications, forcing it to veer and swerve.

"Fire!" Fergus thundered again, and three more shafts were released, one of them narrowly missing a wing as the Archdemon pulled up, hissing its anger at having its deadly purpose thwarted. For a heartstopping second, Talia was sure that the golden eyes looked directly into her own, and she thrust her sword into the air, shouting a defiant challenge, every fiber of her being screaming for battle, but a third volley from the ballistas decided the matter. With a final roar, the Archdemon turned and flew back toward the west, its song fading and then gone, leaving her mind reeling at its loss.

" _Damn_ it!" Frustration boiled up, and she raced to the wall, climbing the steps and staring out over the battlements. They had been so close! Only gradually did other things seep into her awareness: the smell of smoke and burnt flesh, the cries of the wounded and keening sobs of the bereaved, the shouts as lines were formed to pass buckets of water to the burning buildings, the hiss of steam as the flames were doused. She turned and stared around dazedly, met Alistair's eyes, seeing the emotions churning within her reflected there. All of this destruction wrought in just a few seconds … and they hadn't killed it.

"What were you _thinking_?" A hand on her shoulder spun her to meet blue eyes afire with fear and anger.

Talia's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment as she struggled to articulate what she knew. "You were right, Leli!" she blurted at last. "It _is_ afraid of us! We _can_ kill it!" After the months of fear and uncertainty, the feel of those same emotions in the mind of her foe had been an exhilarating revelation, touching a deeper chord than Riordan's assurances had been able to reach. For the first time since she had awakened after her Joining, killing the Archdemon was not some distant, impossible feat, but a task very much within reach.

"Unless it kills _you_ , you _idiot_!" Leliana cried out in exasperation, catching her in a fierce embrace. Talia held her, staring helplessly at Alistair. With the surge of adrenaline fading, the risk of her headlong charge became evident, and the fact that Alistair and Riordan had joined her made it all the more reckless and foolhardy. But there was something else, something that was not matching up with what Riordan had told them …

"I thought you said that the Archdemon would stay away from the front until the darkspawn numbers had been reduced?" Fergus called out as he joined them, soot and sweat staining his face. "These walls aren't going to last long with that thing pounding them." He nudged a loose stone with his foot, watched it fall to the ground. "And I hope that you have a better plan to fight it than running into the open and inviting it to roast you." This last was delivered to Riordan with a frown, but Talia felt her face flush with embarrassment. She had acted no more wisely.

"Its appearance so early was an … unexpected occurrence," Riordan admitted, rubbing at the back of his neck and looking visibly chagrined, "but it may be something that we can turn to our advantage. Come with me." He nodded to Talia and Alistair. "There are things that we must discuss."

Something in his eyes sent a ripple of disquiet through Talia, but she released Leliana and, after a gentle farewell kiss, fell into step beside Alistair as he followed the senior Warden, Brego loping beside them.

"What if it returns?" Fergus demanded.

"We will know," Riordan replied without looking back.

* * *

"So, I guess we aren't getting taught the secret handshake just yet?" Anders quipped as the three Grey Wardens walked away. "Sorry," he apologized as Fergus shot him an irritable look.

The elder Cousland sighed and shook his head. "It's not you," he told the mage. "I just don't like this." His eyes remained on his sister's retreating back, the worry in them echoing the fears in Leliana's heart.

"The other Wardens will be here soon." She'd said the hopeful words to herself each day since the Landsmeet, but they'd never felt more like a prayer than they did right now.

"Not by tomorrow," Fergus replied grimly, "and if that damn thing attacks with the darkspawn ..."

He didn't finish. He didn't need to. If the Archdemon attacked again, the three Wardens would fight it, whether their fellows had joined them or not. They could not do otherwise; that much had been plain in the instinctive way that all of them had moved to challenge it. It was very literally in their blood, though Leliana alone of those present knew it.

"There's healing to be done," Anders said decisively, his eyes on the masses of wounded; as many or more looked to have been trampled in the panic as burned by the Archdemon. "Would you mind staying around in case those templars come back? I don't know if the Wardens would accept a Tranquil into their ranks, and I don't really care to find out."

Fergus nodded his agreement; the words had been glibly spoken, but the seriousness in the mage's hazel eyes suggested a very real fear underlying them. It was a fear that Leliana had seen in the mages in the Circle tower, a fear that underlay Uldred's uprising, but that uprising had likely only increased the templars' own fear of the mages' potential. Perhaps seeing these mages doing good, healing the wounded of their own volition, without supervision by the Chantry, would do something to alter that perception, but she doubted that Rylock would be swayed; that one's demeanor had strongly suggested a personal grudge masquerading as a zeal for duty.

As Anders moved to attend the wounded, Sketch hung back. "It really is good to see you again, Leliana," he told her. "I didn't want to leave you, but the Chantry sister said -"

"It's all right, Sketch," she assured him. "There was nothing more you could have done, and it wasn't safe for you to stay in Orlais."

"No," he agreed, then asked nervously, "Have you … heard anything about Marjolaine?"

"She is dead," Leliana replied simply. "She is no threat to us any longer."

"Dead?" His relief was plain, as was his curiosity. "How -" He stopped himself, gave her a wry smile. "Part of the long story, isn't it? Are you a Grey Warden, too?" He answered his own question before she could. "No, or you would have gone with them." He peered at her sympathetically. "You're worried about them, but they'll find a way to kill it. That's what Grey Wardens do, right?"

She managed a nod and a wan smile. "It is," she agreed. Her worries that had been dwindling only days earlier had now multiplied, and there seemed to be nothing that she could do. When the Archdemon attacked again, Talia and Alistair would confront it, even at risk of their own deaths. If Sketch did not join the Wardens, he would be taken by the Chantry, but if he did, he could die at the Joining. She could warn him, tell him to run; he had eluded the templars many times before, but if she told him of the risk, she would betray the trust that Talia had placed in her, and that she would not do. All that she could do was wait and fight beside her Warden and pray to the Maker for mercy, all too aware that often such prayers were not granted.

"We'll have plenty of time to catch up later, right?" he told her. "I'd better go help Anders."

She watched him go, trying to ignore the guilt at not telling him. Mages from the circle had arrived, as well, with their templar escorts, and Fergus was careful to keep some distance between them and the two apostates. She could help. She knew how to set bones, bandage minor wounds to save healing magic for the worst injuries.

A hand on her shoulder stopped her as she began to move, and she turned to find herself looking into golden eyes.

"I would speak with you in private," Morrigan told her. There was neither warmth nor hostility in the witch's demeanor, but there _was_ an unnerving intensity in those eyes, a barely leashed fear that Leliana had never seen in her before. "'Tis a matter of no small urgency, and one in which I will need your aid."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, bumped up Anders' recruitment a bit in the timeline and threw Sketch in as a bonus. Going to have a nice, big Joining eventually, though not in this story. And I haven't decided yet what's going to happen with regards to Sketch.
> 
> I think that ties up all the loose ends, and the next chapter might take some time. It's another one of those that I've been planning since the beginning, and I really want this one to go the way I've got planned.


	67. Choices

Alistair felt strangely numb as he and Talia followed Riordan through the streets of Denerim toward the palace. Much of it was likely due to the effect of the Archdemon's song. Hearing it – _feeling_ it – without the distraction of nearby darkspawn had been nearly overwhelming, and he didn't know whether to be comforted or worried by the fact that Riordan had reacted as strongly as he and Talia had. Charging a fire-breathing dragon without the slightest hint of a plan of attack was not going to be included on his private list of shining moments.

The absence of the song now had left what felt like a vacuum in its wake, his thoughts a confused jumble bouncing off of each other and off of the incongruous yearning that both frightened and angered him. The Archdemon was the embodiment of evil, death, destruction; its song should not be so beautiful, shouldn't make his heart ache with longing. He couldn't even say with certainty that he had even been intending to attack it when he had been running toward it, and _that_ scared the piss out of him.

Beside him, Talia looked no less dazed, but the folk that they passed did not seem to notice, their glad cries indicating that they believed that the Grey Wardens had driven the Archdemon away. Probably not a good idea to enlighten them; they'd figure it out soon enough, anyway.

Once in the palace, Riordan brushed aside the queries from those wanting to know what had happened with uncharacteristic brusqueness, heading straight for the sitting room where they had carried out their private plannings and closing the door behind them after Talia placed Brego on guard outside to discourage interruptions.

"I … must apologize," he said, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I put us all in danger. I should have expected ..." he trailed off, shaking his head bemusedly. "I never imagined that it could be so compelling," he admitted.

"Reading about something isn't the same as experiencing it," Talia replied with a shrug and a wan smile. "Feeling it without the darkspawn around wasn't the same, either. It took us by surprise. We'll do better next time."

"Yes," Riordan nodded slowly. "Now that we know what to expect, but we will need to watch the others closely when they arrive. Many of them have served for decades, but none of them has yet faced an Archdemon." He smiled wryly at them. "You two will be serving as the voices of experience in that regard."

That wasn't exactly comforting. "Well, at least we can tell them what not to do," Alistair quipped.

Talia snorted softly, her dark eyes slightly unfocused; he knew her well enough to know that meant that her mind was working on something. "That may not help if the Archdemon doesn't do what we expect it to," she said, looking to Riordan pointedly. "Didn't you say that they stay away from the fight until the darkspawn numbers are reduced? Fergus was right; if that thing joins the attack tomorrow, the walls are going to be useless."

"All records since the founding of the Grey Wardens indicate that the Archdemon will avoid fighting us unless it perceives no other options," Riordan agreed, "but our current situation is unprecedented since the first Blight, in that so few of us are present to meet the initial thrust of the darkspawn offensive. The Archdemon is cunning, but not highly intelligent. Sensing so few of us, it may believe that it has an advantage; if it does …" He trailed off significantly.

"If it does, it's going to attack and try to finish us off," Alistair finished for him. Too easy; he'd known it was too easy. _Just hunker down and wait for the other Wardens to arrive._ Right.

"What do we do, then?" Talia wanted to know, cutting to the chase with her usual practicality.

"We … have choices," Riordan answered with a heaviness that suggested that none of the choices were going to be pleasant. "The ships bearing the Grey Wardens from Orlais will arrive before the week is out. We can likely avoid a direct confrontation until then, but once our numbers have increased, the Archdemon will most probably pull back and resume the tactics that its kind have relied upon: commanding the darkspawn from afar until their numbers are reduced enough to force it to join the fight."

"Which means that if we don't kill it before the other Wardens arrive, it may be years before we get another chance." Talia had grasped it at the same time that Alistair had. Her face was pale but resolute as she met Riordan's eyes. "That's what you're saying."

"It is," he confirmed gravely.

The ensuing silence seemed to stretch on forever, though only a few seconds passed as Alistair wrestled with the notion. Years before the Blight ended, thousands dead, Ferelden and Maker knew how much of the rest of Thedas laid waste. Yesterday, it had been a foregone conclusion: bleak, but unavoidable, but now –

Talia broke the silence first. "Only one real choice, then," she said, her jaw set. "How do we kill it?" She didn't look at Alistair; she didn't have to. He stepped closer to her, nodding at Riordan to indicate his agreement.

Riordan smiled faintly. "Duncan would be proud of you both," he said, and while that didn't make the prospect of the three of them taking on an Archdemon any less terrifying, it meant something. To him, at least. The smile faded, and Alistair felt yet another stab of foreboding just before Riordan went on, "There is one more thing that I must tell you, but before I do, I need to know." His gaze settled directly on Talia. "What have you told her?"

_Crap._ Alistair felt his stomach fold in on itself with guilt, but Talia never flinched.

"Everything," she said calmly. "I trust Leliana with my life. With all of our lives."

Riordan nodded, closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, let it out. "It is not so simple as that," he said, opening his eyes to regard her somberly. "I will not lecture or scold. Regardless of how little you knew of the order, you are neither novices nor children. I will warn you, however: it is common, even expected in the Grey Wardens to forsake all ties beyond those with others in the order, and – for better or worse – our secrets are considered paramount. That you have taken a lover will be disapproved of but overlooked, but if the other Wardens discover what you have shared with her, they will conscript her."

"They can try." Talia's response was as immediate and hostile as her reaction to the templar's threat to Leliana had been, though at least her sword stayed in its sheath this time. For now, anyway. "How many do you think they'd be willing to lose in the attempt?"

"Peace," Riordan said wearily, lifting a hand in a forestalling gesture. "I have no intention of telling them, but you must understand what their reaction would be if they find out by other means. If she warns the elven mage that you conscripted today –"

"She won't," Talia replied without hesitation, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at Riordan.

"She won't," Alistair put in more placatingly. _I hope._ Not that he didn't trust Leliana, but it was a lot to ask of her. Maybe he could have a private word with her, make sure she understood what was at stake, because he had no doubt at all that Talia would do exactly as she'd said if they tried conscripting the bard. And if she decided to take on the combined might of the rest of the Grey Wardens of Thedas, that meant he would be right there beside her, because damned if he'd let her do it alone.

"I hope that you are right," Riordan told them, "but regardless, I must order you to tell no one else what I am about to tell you."

That definitely didn't sound promising, but Alistair nodded, as did Talia, though she looked none too pleased about it. The threat of conscription had clearly made an impression on her, however, and he thought it likely that she would obey.

"An Archdemon is created when the darkspawn taint corrupts one of the Old Gods of Tevinter," Riordan began. "Whether the dragons are true deities or not is a dispute for the theologians, but what is not in dispute is that they are immortal, or so close as to make no difference. They have survived for millenia entombed deep beneath the ground, and those that have been awakened and corrupted can survive wounds that would kill any normal creature … even a dragon."

Alistair nodded his comprehension. The books they had read had touched on all of this, but had all stopped at this point, beyond asserting that Grey Wardens could kill what was otherwise unkillable without going into the 'how' of it.

"Even if sufficient damage can be inflicted to end its physical life, the soul of the Old God lives on," Riordan continued grimly, "and it is drawn to the taint as surely as iron is pulled to a lodestone. It will enter the nearest darkspawn and claim it, twisting the form to its will until a new Archdemon is shaped. This happened three times in the course of the first Blight."

All right, _that_ definitely hadn't been mentioned in any of the histories he'd read. "How quickly does it happen?" Alistair asked, his imagination obligingly offering up its own scenarios, ranging from hair-raising to nauseating.

"Unknown," Riordan admitted, "though the records seem to indicate that the transformation is not immediate." What must that have been like, thinking they had killed the damn thing, celebrating its demise, only to be faced with it again days later?

"I guess that killing all the darkspawn first so that it has nowhere to go isn't really feasible?" Talia mused.

The senior Warden shook his head. "You have seen for yourself how they reproduce," he told her. "Even if we could find and kill every broodmother in the Deep Roads, the darkspawn could create more, and they would in turn create more darkspawn. Whatever their true origins, it seems no more likely that darkspawn could be eliminated than every insect in Thedas killed. We can only eliminate that Archdemons that give them the focus and control to pose a true threat to the world."

Talia accepted this with a nod, and Alistair breathed a private sigh of relief. He loved her like a sister, but setting out to kill every darkspawn in existence was even more suicidal than taking on the Grey Wardens.

"Obviously, the Wardens _can_ kill the Archdemon," Talia said, watching Riordan's face closely. "That's something that everybody agrees on; it's _how_ they can do it that's the secret, isn't it?"

"It is," Riordan confirmed with a sigh. "The blood that we drink at the Joining gives us the ability to sense the darkspawn, and immunity to the immediate effects of the taint, but that is not its ultimate purpose. When an Archdemon is slain by a Grey Warden, the soul of the Old God is drawn to the taint within that Warden, but unlike darkspawn, Grey Wardens have souls, and two souls cannot exist in one body." In the pause that followed, Alistair counted ten beats of his suddenly hammering heart. "The soul of the Old God is destroyed in that joining," Riordan said heavily, "along with the host."

"Host?" Alistair forced the word from a mouth gone bone dry.

"He means the Warden," Talia said tonelessly. "The Grey Warden who kills the Archdemon is going to die, no matter what."

"Yes," Riordan replied, his regret plain. "I had hoped to spare you this. There are many among the coming Wardens who have spent their lives in service and would gladly strike the killing blow. I will still spare you, if it is at all possible. I will kill the Archdemon, if I can, but if I fail, or fall before I can make the attempt –"

"I'll do it." Saying the words was almost too easy, and it was the logical option, but Talia was shaking her head before he had finished speaking.

"Not your call," she informed him with a smirk, though there was no humor in her eyes. "I'm the Warden-Commander, remember?"

Of all the times that he had regretted allowing her to take on the duty that should have been his, none of them bit so deeply as this one. "Talia, it makes the most sense," he said, trying desperately for a voice of reason. "Leliana –"

"Leliana has nothing to do with this!" she cut him off savagely, her eyes shining a bit too bright, but her face set in resolve. "This is our _duty_ , Alistair! Do you think I could look her in the eye knowing that I just let you die?"

"And I'm supposed to tell her that I let you get killed?" he countered. "She needs you, Talia. I'm the most expendable –"

"Don't!" Talia shouted at him, the first tears escaping her eyes. "Don't you say that, ever! You're _not_ expendable! _I_ need you, damn it!" She threw her arms around him, holding tight. "I need you," she choked out past the sobs.

He couldn't get an answer past the tightness in his own throat, so he just held her, feeling the tears running down his own cheeks. He'd have reacted no less vehemently than Talia if she had been the one proposing to sacrifice herself, but it wasn't as if he _wanted_ to die! He just … didn't want to live while she died. It didn't look as though what either of them wanted was going to matter in the grand scheme of things, however.

"Besides," Talia said after a bit, drawing back and looking up at him, "odds are that none of us is going to survive tomorrow, except maybe the Archdemon." Wiping her eyes, she turned to regard Riordan, who had watched them in sympathetic silence. "Am I right?"

"That is … highly possible," he conceded. "Three Wardens against an Archdemon so early in the Blight has never occurred before, nor has one ever been slain on the first engagement. In previous Blights, the griffins were reported to be formidable allies and weapons, allowing us to challenge the Archdemon in the air, but the records of what happened to them after the fourth Blight have evidently been lost. Without them, on the ground, our chances are slim."

"The ballistas drove it off today," Talia said thoughtfully. "If we could hit it with one or more of those bolts, we might be able to bring it down, even the odds a bit."

"Possible," Riordan agreed, "and something that I plan to discuss with your brother and the Queen. We must seek any advantage that is to be had." He glanced out the window; the clouds that had advanced with the coming of the Archdemon had lingered, and the dusk that they had created was edging toward the dark of night. "For now, rest and gather what strength you can. Find me in the morning, and we will make our final plans."

The idea of sleeping seemed ludicrous, but Alistair made himself nod and followed Talia out into the corridor. Brego came to his feet, an anxious whine curling from his throat as he looked between them, sensing the tension in the air. They walked together in silence; he couldn't think of a single funny thing to say. All this time, he'd known that the odds were long, but the fact that he'd never honestly expected to make it this far had kept him from really contemplating coming up against the Archdemon. And now, they _had_ made it this far, only to find out that at least one of them had been doomed from the beginning, without ever knowing it.

_Damn it, Duncan … why didn't you tell me?_ Had his mentor not trusted him with that hard truth? Not that Alistair would really have blamed him; it wasn't as though he'd been the best -

He'd taken three steps up the staircase leading to the guest wing when he realized that he was alone. Looking back, he found Talia standing motionless at the foot of the stairs, looking back at him with a stricken expression.

"What's wrong?" he asked, then immediately felt like an idiot. What _wasn't_ wrong at the moment?

"I just … can't see her yet," Talia said, agitation edging her voice. "I'm going to go … walk, I guess. Somewhere."

"Talia?" He took a cautious step down toward her, glancing around to be sure that no one was close enough to overhear anything she might say. The look on her face scared him more than a little; he hadn't seen her looking so broken since that night on the mountain at Haven.

"I'm not going to tell her," she said, a trace of impatience showing briefly before a ragged laugh escaped her. "Not like what I _can_ tell her isn't bad enough," she said bitterly. "I never wanted to hurt her, but that's all that I seem to do, and now ..." She trailed off, looking despondent. "I promised her I'd never leave her," she whispered. "How could I have been so damn stupid?"

"We both were," he told her, knowing that it would be scant comfort, but needing to offer _something_. "Maybe it won't attack with the darkspawn tomorrow; it definitely didn't seem to like getting shot at."

"Maybe," she echoed softly, though her expression suggested that she didn't find the possibility any more likely than he did. "But if it does, we're not going to be able to pick and choose. Whoever gets the chance to kill it has to take it, and if they fail, then whoever is left has to try … and keep trying."

_Until it is dead … or we are._

The words hovered unspoken between them, but understood all the same, and he nodded slowly, meeting her eyes. "Agreed."

Talia mirrored his nod, shoulders slumping wearily. "Go on," she told him quietly. "I need some air."

He hesitated. "What do I tell Leliana?" he wanted to know.

"She'll already know," she replied with a sad smile that made his chest ache. "She knows us. Just tell her I'll be up soon."

"I will," he promised. She was right; it wouldn't take Leliana long to realize that they would challenge the Archdemon when it returned, with or without the other Wardens. He watched as she walked away, her hand resting on Brego's neck, then turned and trudged up the steps to his room.

At least, he'd _thought_ it was his room.

"Sorry," he said, preparing to back out, then pausing. That was his pack, leaning against the foot of the bed, there was his cloak on the hook by the door. This _was_ his room.

So what was Morrigan doing here?

"What's going on?" he asked as the witch turned away from the fireplace. In the corner, one of the shadows moved, light from the flames in the hearth gleaming on red hair, and now he was _really_ confused. Granted, Leliana and Morrigan were no longer so at odds that he had the urge to hide the knives when they were near each other, but they still didn't seek out each other's company … particularly not to lurk in his room … which was a first for them both, anyway. "What happened? Did something happen? Is Fergus all right?" If anything had happened to her brother after they left, Talia would –

"Fergus is well," Morrigan told him. Her voice was as calm as ever, but there was a tension in her pose, an odd intensity in her eyes that he hadn't seen since the Brecilian Forest, when she had been fighting Witherfang's curse. She was afraid, but trying hard not to show it. "'Tis you who are in danger, is it not?"

"What are you talking …" He trailed off, staring at her, trying to deny the sudden rise of foreboding. She couldn't possibly mean –

Leliana stepped closer to him, her crystaline blue gaze searching his face with a desperate intensity. "It's true, then," she said in a low voice, closing her eyes and swaying slightly, hands curled into fists at her sides.

"What's true?" he demanded, telling himself fiercely that they had to be referring to something else … anything else. "What are you two talking about?" It couldn't be that; it _couldn't_ –

"I know, Alistair," Morrigan said, her voice devoid of the scorn that was usually prominent when she was informing him of something he'd missed. She almost sounded … gentle. "I know the secret that the Wardens have kept from you until now. I know that a Grey Warden must sacrifice themselves to kill the Archdemon. I know that you or Talia might be the one who will be called upon to make that sacrifice … and I know of a way by which none need die, save the Archdemon."

He barely heard that last bit. "How did you … how do you … were you listening to us?" He had a brief mental image of Morrigan in the form of a duck, flapping her wings to hover by a window, and had to suppress the sudden wild urge to laugh, and surely he had gone 'round the final bend into madness, because she wasn't laughing at him, or calling him a dolt. She was just _looking_ at him, with something that looked like regret in her golden eyes, but couldn't be, because this was _Morrigan_ , who didn't feel normal things like regret and fear, and if she was feeling those things, then –

"You knew." The knowledge dropped into place like a stone in his gut, stunned anger rippling outward. "You knew all this time, and you didn't say anything." He spoke slowly, turning the words over in his mind as he said them, testing their reality. Still, she watched him, her chin lifted in proud defiance, neither confirming nor denying, but that didn't matter, because he _knew_ , and the ripples of anger burst into flame beneath his skin.

"You _knew_!" he thundered, striding forward, catching her by the shoulders and shaking her hard, a part of him aware that he was all but asking to have a lightning bolt turned on him, but most of him not giving a damn, because he was as good as dead already, and she had known from the beginning and kept it from them, and _why_ did that feel like a betrayal? Why was he even surprised? "You sodding _bitch_! Why didn't you tell us? Why didn't –"

"Stop it!" Leliana pushed her way between them, breaking his hold on the witch, who had made no attempt to protect herself. "Alistair, please! Just listen to what she has to say, I beg you!"

"Have you lost your mind?" he shouted at the bard. "Don't you remember what she did? This is just another one of her damn games!"

"It is no game," Leliana countered, eyes shifting fearfully toward the door, clearly worried that his shouting would draw attention. Talia's attention. "It could save your life, and Talia's. Please, Alistair, let her speak!"

The urgency in her face and voice stilled any further protests. He gave her a curt nod, his gaze shifting to Morrigan. "Talk," he ordered the witch, forcing the blaze of rage down to a simmer.

If she was frightened, either by his earlier attack or by his demeanor now, she gave no sign. "To answer your question: yes, I knew from the first what the fate of the Warden who kills the Archdemon will be. Flemeth told me."

"Of course, she did," he said bleakly. "She knows everything, right?" She'd certainly acted as though she did. According to Talia, she'd even known that the Warden was coming to kill her, though that hadn't been enough to save her in the end.

"Not everything," Morrigan replied, "but a great deal. As for why I did not tell you, firstly: would you have believed me, and secondly: what, exactly, would you have done differently, had you known?"

He opened his mouth, closed it again. He couldn't honestly say what the answer to the second question might have been, but he knew without any doubt what the response to the first question was.

Morrigan knew, as well; her lips curved in a bitterly humorless smile before she went on. "Would you then have believed me if I told you that this does not need to be, that I have a way out for all Grey Wardens, that there need be no sacrifice?"

"I'm not sure why I should believe you now," he shot back.

"If Riordan did not tell you precisely what Flemeth told me, then you should not," she told him with a studied indifference.

He considered this, nodded. "Tell me."

"It requires a ritual," Morrigan said. "Performed on the eve of battle, in the dark of night."

"Tonight," he said, not needing her nod to confirm it. If not tonight, it might very well be never. "What kind of ritual?"

She hesitated, visibly weighing her words before answering. "It is old magic, from a time long before the Circle of Magi were ever created, before the Chantry claimed dominion over those with magical ability and decreed what was permissible and what was apostasy."

"Blood magic," he guessed, shooting a glance at Leliana, wondering how much of this she had heard already. She met his eyes, her face pale and drawn, but set in the manner of one resolved to go forward no matter the cost.

"Some might call it thusly, but that is but a name," Morrigan said calmly. "There is far more to fear in this world than names."

"Careful, Morrigan," he drawled. "You're sounding like your mother." A childish jab, perhaps, but he wanted to pierce that lofty mien, and it did the trick. The golden eyes narrowed, glinting dangerously, but after a moment, she continued.

"As I learned of the ritual from Flemeth, the resemblance should perhaps not be surprising," she said in a clipped voice. "'Tis the reason she wished me to accompany you in the first place."

"What exactly is this ritual?" he asked impatiently. "And shouldn't Talia be a part of this discussion?"

"No!" Leliana's protest was immediate.

"The reason for that will shortly become evident," Morrigan added dryly, disquiet rippling briefly across her features before she moved to the window, staring out into the darkness. When she turned back around, she was composed once more. "Lay with me," she said, looking directly into his eyes. "Here. Tonight. From this joining, a child shall be conceived. The child -"

"Wait! _What?_ " He couldn't possibly have heard that right.

"The child will bear the taint that is within you." Morrigan went on as if he had not interrupted. "When the Archdemon is slain, its essence will seek the child like a beacon."

"And you think this is a _good_ idea?" He stared at her, aghast.

"If you would allow me to finish," Morrigan said sharply. "At this early stage, the child can absorb the essence and not perish. The Archdemon will be destroyed, but with no Grey Warden dying in the process. Not Riordan, not you, not Talia. Is _that_ not a good idea?"

"I –" he faltered, his mind spinning. _This_ was why he was not the Warden-Commander; he was no good at these kinds of decisions. What she was saying made sense, but -

"What if it just creates another Archdemon?" he countered. "Riordan said that if the Archdemon's soul enters a darkspawn, it changes it; what's it going to do to –" _My child?_ That part of what she had said sunk in at last, hitting like a punch to the gut. She wanted him to father a child and turn it into a monster.

"The child will not be harmed," Morrigan told him. "Nor will it become an Archdemon. 'Tis the darkspawn taint that corrupts and twists an Old God. The taint that the child will bear is very different; it will bind the essence, but will not alter it. The child will be born with the soul of an Old God.

"And you're going to do … what?" he demanded, still trying to wrap his mind around the concept of Morrigan with a baby … or whatever it would be. "Drink its blood? Sacrifice virgins to it?"

"I shall raise the child," she retorted. "Alone. That is my only price. Once the Archdemon is slain, I will leave, and you will not follow me. Ever. You will not see the child, or me, again."

The childish impulse arose again, but this time, he did not give in and tell her that never seeing her again was a tempting offer. She plainly believed that what she was proposing was possible, and he didn't know whether he was more frightened of the idea itself …or the fact that he was actually considering it. "What are you getting out of this?" he wanted to know. "Don't tell me that you just decided that you wanted to be a mother."

"If that were all that I wished, I can assure you that there would be more palatable options," Morrigan replied, looking at him with disdain. "I seek to free an ancient power from a corrupting influence, and end the Blight with the same stroke. Are those not worthy goals?"

"If they're so worthy, why aren't you telling Talia?" he challenged her. He knew the reason, wanted her to say it, but it was not Morrigan who answered.

"She would not agree to it," Leliana said softly, moving to stand beside him, anguish touching her features. "She does not fear death, Alistair; you know she doesn't."

"She's not like she was, Leli," Alistair told her. The days when Talia had almost actively courted death were long gone; she could still be reckless, but - "She loves you –"

"She will do her duty," the bard cut him off bitterly, "whatever the cost."

"And I won't?" He was pretty sure that he should be insulted by that, but Leliana looked so damn miserable that he couldn't manage it.

"You are more levelheaded than she," Morrigan told him. "Hopefully levelheaded enough to see that duty can be fulfilled by more than a single path."

"Riordan is going to try to kill the Archdemon himself," he told Leliana, trying to sound more confident than he felt, "and if he doesn't, I will -"

"There is no guarantee that you will be given the opportunity," the witch countered, "and if Talia is given the chance to kill the Archdemon, she will not flinch from it. You know this."

"I can't lose her, Alistair," Leliana beseeched him. "I can't!"

"But this …" He shook his head, unsure just what to call it. "This ritual. Even if it works, the Archdemon could kill her, me, Riordan … the sodding darkspawn could kill us before we even get close to it!"

"But it is a chance!" she persisted. "I don't want either of you to die, Alistair! You are like a brother to me, and Talia would be devastated if she lost you!"

He closed his eyes, dragging the fingers of one hand through his hair, feeling trapped between Morrigan's implacable logic and Leliana's fear. Maker, but he wanted to ask Talia what she thought. He was not as sure as Leliana seemed to be that she would reject the ritual … but if she did, that would be the end of it. All that he would be able to do is hope that Riordan succeeded in killing the Archdemon, or that he got the chance before Talia did … and he knew well enough just how slim a chance either hope had. This decision had to be his, for better or worse; it wasn't as though Talia could be the one to participate in the ritual, any way. "How do you know it will work?" he asked, opening his eyes and looking at Morrigan.

"I do not," she replied simply, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "Not with absolute certainty, but Flemeth believed that it would. Her knowledge of such things was far greater than mine, and her gift for prophecy, while frequently nebulous, could at times be quite specific. She foresaw the Blight before Maric ever ascended the throne; she knew of the treachery at Ostagar before it was carried out … and she very clearly saw both you and Talia facing the Archdemon in battle, though not the final outcome. It was often thus when more than one possibility presented itself. I do believe it to be the best chance for both of you to survive, however."

He nodded, turning to the window, swinging it open and staring out into the deepening night. There was little relief to be found in the still air, and the dark clouds boiled overhead, fitful flickers of lightning dancing in their depths. "All right," he said without turning around. "I'll do it."

He was fairly sure that lightning – _not_ from Morrigan, mind you – was going to strike him down, but nothing like that happened. Only Leliana's arms encircling him from behind for a brief hug, then the sound of her leaving, the door closing gently in her wake.

Leaving him alone with Morrigan. Silence reigned for one minute, then two, before the witch spoke.

"Shall we get this over with?" she inquired briskly.

"Not yet." He closed the window and turned to find her watching him warily.

"It does not have to be an onerous duty," she told him, stretching out on the bed and propping her head on one hand. "Would you have me submissive and pliant?" she suggested, the fingers of her free hand trailing between her breasts, teasing at the edges of her already-revealing garment. "Wanton and carnal? What would please you?"

"The truth," he said flatly. Anger flared in the golden eyes, but not enough to completely conceal the fear.

"I have told you the truth," she snapped, rolling off of the bed and stalking away. "The ritual is as I have described, and it is the only way that the Archdemon may be slain without the sacrifice of a Grey Warden."

"And I believe you."

"Then what -"

"What did Flemeth intend to do with a child bearing the soul of an Old God?"

The question plainly took Morrigan aback, and it took a long moment before she responded. "I … cannot say with any surety," she admitted, glancing away, visibly discomfited. "It seems reasonable to think that she intended to raise the child, then claim it as her next host once it had matured."

"But you don't really know." It wasn't really a question, and the icy glare that she directed at him was all the answer he needed. "So, what are you going to do with it?"

"As I said before, I will raise it," she replied sharply, "and teach it to respect that from which it came."

"Why?" he pressed her. "What do you think to gain from it?"

If the look she had given him before was icy, the one she leveled at him now could have frozen flesh on the bone. "I seek the essence of the Old God that once was, and not the forces that corrupted it," she informed him, her words coldly precise. "An ancient power will be given freedom, and the chance to be reborn apart from the taint. Some things are worth preserving in this world." She turned away from him, staring into the flames that danced in the hearth. "Make of that what you will."

If you had asked him yesterday, Alistair would have sworn that Morrigan was an utter mystery to him, and that he was quite happy to keep it that way. Watching her now: the defensive set of her shoulders, the way that her eyes wouldn't quite meet his, he understood more than he had ever thought he would. He believed what she had told him, as far as it went; he'd witnessed her aversion to the idea of imprisonment often enough over the past year. Sten, the blood mage at Redcliffe, Hespith … an Old God would be an apt addition to the collection. But he was also quite sure that there was more to it.

"You don't have any idea what the child will be like," he said quietly, "do you?" When she did not respond, he went on. "Do you even know if you can carry it to term safely?" If its growth was even a fraction of what it was in its usual form, pregnancy would be impossible, to say nothing of delivery.

"Few worthy endeavors are without risk," she informed him, clearly trying for her customary detached mien, but not quite getting there.

"Maybe so," he responded, "but you never struck me as the suicidal type before. Why risk so much for an unknown outcome?"

"The choice is mine to make!" she flared, spinning on him with blazing eyes. "I offer you the chance to save your life, and Talia's; you need not concern yourself with me."

"What I'm concerned about is whether this child with the Archdemon's soul might turn out to be something even worse than the Archdemon," he shot back. "The idea is to end the Blight, not postpone it."

"I tell you again, it will _not_ be the Archdemon's soul," she countered with a long suffering sigh. "It will be freed from the taint of the darkspawn, nor will it draw them to it as it did in its draconic form; therefore, it will not be capable of initiating a new Blight. It will be no more good or evil than any human, elf or dwarf at birth."

"But more powerful," he guessed. While the idea of Morrigan trying to raise a fire-breathing baby was - in theory – hilarious, the potential reality was much less amusing.

"Possibly," she conceded, stepping past him, returning to the window, looking out at the darkness that the torches and lanterns that lined the streets seemed barely able to hold back, "though how much of that power will determined by its form, I do not know. Flemeth's writings indicate that she believed that the child would have no godlike abilities, but might instead be gifted with an unusual aptitude for magic, a rare charisma that will make it a leader of men, or perhaps a scholar with wisdom beyond its years … or perhaps all … or perhaps none. Will it even remember what it once was?" She shook her head slowly, golden eyes thoughtful. "I cannot say."

"But what if -"

"You ask for certainties that I cannot offer, Alistair." She turned away from the window, her gaze back on him. "The only thing that I know without a doubt is that without this ritual, one of you will die tomorrow."

"Why me for the ritual?" he wanted to know. "Why not Riordan?"

"Apart from the fact that he would not agree to it, you mean?" she asked. "He has harbored the taint for too long; any chance that he had of siring a child is gone. The ritual can strengthen what has been weakened, but it cannot bring back what is dead and cold. It must be you, and it must be tonight."

"You've known all this time that you and I -" He couldn't say it. He was still having trouble _thinking_ it. "Is that why you hate me?"

Another sigh. "I do not hate you, Alistair," she told him wearily. "I am … as I was made to be by Flemeth, and I know not how to be otherwise. She raised me, shaped me to her purposes; it was this that I hated. I had thought that with her death, I might seek my own path, but it seems that I am as great a fool as I have accused you of being."

She moved back to the fireplace, arms crossed as if warding off a chill. "This may come as a shock to you, but I had never known friendship in my life. Indeed, Flemeth took great pains to instill in me the conviction that such things were mere illusions: tricks designed to lull the gullible into exploitable weakness. She was right." She glanced back at him, lips curled in a bitterly self-mocking smile, then returned her gaze to the dancing flames. "Even knowing that, however, I find myself ensnared."

He took a step toward her, then paused, studying her profile in the backlight of the fire. She looked smaller, almost fragile. "You're doing this to save Talia."

She nodded once. "She has been more than a friend to me, for reasons I still cannot comprehend. Certainly, I never gave her reason to be, and yet, time and again, she has aided me, sometimes at risk of her own life, never asking anything in return. At first, I thought her a fool, as Flemeth always taught me, and perhaps she is, but I -" she swallowed hard, and her voice was thick with emotion when she went on. "I do not want her to die. I had thought, with the other Grey Wardens soon to arrive, that the ritual would not be needed; surely, many of their number would be eager to strike the killing blow and die in glory. But time, it seems, has run out."

"You don't have to do the ritual," Alistair told her, trying to convince himself at the same time. "Between you and me, we can keep Talia away from the Archdemon tomorrow." He'd knocked her out once before, to keep her from tearing through Denerim's guards to get to Howe; he could do it again. She might hate him for it, but she'd be alive. If he could do it.

"We could try," Morrigan countered, giving him a sidelong look, lips quirked in a wry moue. "The list of those who have thwarted Talia Cousland when she has set her mind to anything is a short one. You managed it once, but she will be expecting it this time. And Leliana is correct: if you perish, Talia will be most distressed. She has lost much in her life; I would … spare her more pain. Then, too," she went on, glancing away self-consciously, "I owe you a debt, as well."

"Me?" He stared at her uncomprehendingly.

"In the Brecilian Forest," she clarified. "When we were left among the elves, it would have been easy for you to let me be taken by the curse. I … expected that you would, yet you did not, though it would have removed a thorn from your side with no one the wiser."

"I would have known," he corrected her, and couldn't resist adding, "and you're a pain in the ass, not the side."

"I stand corrected." Her smile was faint, but still the most genuine one he had ever received from her. "Be that as it may, you ignored an opportunity that many – myself included – likely would not have. Nor is it the only time that you have come to my aid, though I have given you no reason to wish to do so."

"Are you … calling me a friend?" Briefly, Alistair wondered if this might be nothing more than an attempt to manipulate him into going along with her plan, but if that had been the case, surely she would have started well before now. This felt very much like the honesty that had passed between them in the Brecilian Forest: a candor born of last chances and fading hope.

She laughed softly. "I believe that we can both agree that would be an overstatement," she told him. "Nonetheless, you are … a good man, and I believe that this world would be a better place, were you to remain in it." She hesitated, then went on, "No doubt, you think my words a ploy to entice your cooperation."

"The thought had occurred to me," he admitted.

"Had it not, I would be forced to conclude that you are indeed a fool," she replied with a smirk before her expression grew pensive. "What I am this night, I will likely never be again," she mused softly. "My life to this point has been bound by Flemeth's will for me; after tonight, it will be no less bound by the child and what it requires of me." She stared into the flames for a long moment before she went on. "You are correct that I do not know with any certainty what the child will be like, and it frightens me, but the choice is mine, and freely made."

"You don't have to raise the child alone." The words sounded insane in his own ears. What were they going to to? Set up housekeeping in Flemeth's old hut? Even if the notion of raising a fire-breathing baby appealed to him in the slightest (it didn't), this truce between he and Morrigan was as temporary as the one in the Brecilian Forest had been. Sooner or later – most likely sooner – they'd be back to driving each other crazy.

She glanced at him with a quizzical expression. "Is that intended to be a proposal of marriage?" she asked, then laughed that rare, rich laugh of hers at his expression (which, if it looked anything like he felt, would admittedly be worth laughing at, if one was in the mood to be amused). "If it was, I must decline. Aside from the fact that I would not condemn either of us to such a fate, I meant what I said about being unsure of the child's nature." She faced him fully now, amusement fading, her eyes meeting his. "If it is malevolent, or dangerous -"

"I thought you said -"

"Flemeth believed that it would not be," she interrupted his interruption as though she had anticipated it … which she probably had. "She was both learned and powerful, but neither omnipotent nor omniscient, and she knew it. She had considered the possibility that the child would not be as she expected, and prepared for that possibility with a means to end the threat, if necessary."

"End the threat?" he echoed. "You mean kill the child, don't you?"

"That is precisely what I mean," she replied calmly. "If there is no other choice, I _will_ kill the child – our child, rather than allow it to pose a threat to the world, but that is not a burden that I will lay upon you. I will not stay … and you will not follow me."

There was no hint of compromise in her voice or manner, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to try. Far too many possibilities were suggesting themselves, and even if he didn't want to marry her, he wasn't willing to let her face them with no help at all. What if there was trouble with the birth? What if she were injured or seriously ill? What if the child was evil, and Flemeth's planned method of killing it didn't work? These and other questions crowded into his mind, but Morrigan was shaking her head before he could even open his mouth.

"No more questions, Alistair," she told him, the words gentle but firm. "I have told you what I can, and it is the truth, as far as I know it to be." She stepped away from the fire and approached him, her movements graceful, deliberate. "This choice is mine, and mine alone, to make, and this night is my one chance to be who I might have been, were I not the daughter of Flemeth. Do not seek to take that from me. Help me … please." Golden eyes echoed the solemn plea of her words as she held her hand out to him. "Help me save our friend."

She looked like nothing he had ever seen before this night, her countenance bearing no traces of the masks that had guarded her for as long as he had known her. Disdain, arrogance, indifference were nowhere to be found. Before him stood a woman flush with power and freedom: radiant and vulnerable and determined … and beautiful in her fear and her strength. She had made her choice, and now Alistair made his, praying that it was the right one as he took her hand and drew her to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I do have a Stolen Moments chapter planned, just not sure if I'm going to turn aside from my drive to the finish to write it just yet. Probably not, unless I get stuck.
> 
> Another of those chapters that I've been planning since the beginning, and overall, this one unfolded according to plan. First off, the explanation of why it was so critical for the three Wardens to challenge the Archdemon at the outset, instead of waiting for reinforcements, and I think that the reasoning that I came up with satisfies the demands of logic.
> 
> And then, the Dark Ritual. Having Morrigan approach Leliana first was an idea that I had early on, because I could not see Talia agreeing to the Dark Ritual. Ironically, her little jaunt to kill Flemeth, which pretty well convinced Leliana, Alistair and Morrigan that she wouldn't hesitate to get herself killed if duty demanded it, might have actually made Talia more likely to accept the proposal. Seeing what the prospect of her death did to the people that she cared about affected her greatly, and likely would have tipped the balance.
> 
> Leliana didn't have as big a part here as I had originally envisioned, but I still felt that her presence was necessary. Morrigan would not have been able to convince Alistair alone, which was another reason why I needed to ratchet down the hostility between them after the blowup at Redcliffe. I'm probably going to leave the private dialog between Morrigan and Leliana off screen and in the imaginations of the readers, at least for now. I've got a general idea of how it went that might crop up in a flashback in a later story; 'tempestuous' is probably the best adjective.
> 
> The complex dynamic between Morrigan and Alistair, which I first started tweaking in earnest back in the Brecilian Forest, culminates here, and while I don't usually ask for reviews, in this case, I am highly curious to see if you think that I managed to pull it off plausibly. In the game, convincing Alistair goes roughly like this:
> 
> Alistair: You're joking, right?
> 
> Warden: Nope.
> 
> Alistair: All right. Let's do this before I lose my nerve.
> 
> Obviously, I wanted something a bit more in depth. It felt right as I was writing and re-reading it; I was trying for something like a continuation of what developed between them while Morrigan was afflicted with Witherfang's curse. Not romance … exactly, though there is a chemistry there that I think they are both aware of. As I noted before, each of them is honest in their own way, and in moments of crisis, they each recognize it in the other.
> 
> The key to the whole scene for me was that Morrigan (in this story, anyway) had decided to forgo the ritual when it looked as though the other Grey Wardens would be arriving and someone other than Alistair or Talia would be delivering the killing blow. Only after the unexpected early arrival of the Archdemon, when she realized that Flemeth's vision was going to hold true, did she choose to move forward with the ritual, to save Talia, and, to a lesser extent, Alistair.
> 
> To me, it was the only motivation that made sense. I never saw any dialog in the game that gave me the impression that Morrigan had any idea what to do with an Old God Baby, or even what it might really be like. Flemeth knew, but her daughter had only the ritual, and in this story, at least, Morrigan is not reckless enough to take that kind of a chance when the only potential gain is tied to so many unknowns, no matter what she might tell herself. And it was the only motivation that would sway Alistair. Regardless of how much he wanted to save Talia, if he thought that Morrigan was doing it to gain power, he'd have dug in his heels. I'm fairly proud of them both.
> 
> I initially intended to close this chapter with a scene between Talia and Leliana, but I decided that Alistair deserved the spotlight to himself this time. We're four, maybe five chapters from the end now, so hang in there!


	68. Darkness At Dawn

Leliana's doubts had begun as soon as she closed Alistair's door, leaving him alone with Morrigan, and swelled as she made her way down the hall to the room that she and Talia shared. It was empty, but that did not surprise her. Talia would need time to compose herself; her love had little practice at deceit.

It was a skill that Leliana had thought herself done with, and that she would be deceiving the one person who trusted her completely made it even worse, the awareness twisting ever tighter in her chest until she could scarcely breathe. She had no choice, she told herself yet again; it was the only chance for both Talia and Alistair to survive.

She hadn't wanted to believe Morrigan; she had wanted nothing more than to lash out at the witch, call her a liar and worse, and she had, at first. Morrigan had not flared with anger at her insults, had not made use of her sharp tongue to respond in kind; she had been more serious than Leliana had ever seen her. Serious and resigned … and afraid, not only for Talia and Alistair, but for herself. The witch _could_ lie, but a bard's eyes were adept at piercing veils of dissemblance, and Leliana found none, as much as she had wanted to. Only a young woman terrified at plunging alone into the unknown, but determined to do it anyway. Determined to save a friend, if she could.

It was the prospect of bearing and raising a child that Morrigan feared; she quite plainly believed what she had read in Flemeth's writings: that the babe with the soul of an Old God would pose no threat to Thedas, would not command darkspawn as the Archdemon had done. But what if she was wrong? What if Flemeth was wrong? In the end, the Witch of the Wilds had been mortal; she could also be fallible. What Leliana had agreed to, what she had helped convince Alistair to do, was surely blasphemy, insanity. This could not be what the Maker had willed when he sent His vision to her. And Talia. She would never have agreed to it; what would happen when she found out what had been done?

It was wrong, madness. There was still time to stop it, time for her to -

"Hey."

Leliana spun with a gasp. "I didn't hear you come in," she told Talia. "I was -" She trailed off, watching as her Warden closed the door to their room, leaving Brego on guard in the hall, feeling her resolve sliding away again in the presence of the one that she loved more than life itself, seeing the fear and hurt that Talia was trying so hard to hide.

"Sorry," Talia told her. "I took my armor to the smith; he's going to look it over, make any repairs that it needs." Normally, basic maintenance was a task that Talia saw to herself each night, but it could be time consuming, and Leliana was glad that she had delegated that duty tonight, even if it had just been a ruse to explain her absence. As always, her lover looked younger and more vulnerable without the bulky plate; younger than eighteen, though that was a cruel enough age to bear the burdens that looked heavy enough to crush her tonight. "Leli … tomorrow, I – we –"

"Shh." Leliana moved to her, silencing her with a finger to her lips, then with a kiss. "I know, my love," she murmured when they parted, drawing back only far enough to speak. "You will challenge the Archdemon when it comes." Saving her Warden from having to utter the half-truth.

"We have to," Talia confirmed, looking miserable. "Riordan thinks that it's getting close because it can only sense the three of us. When the other Wardens arrive, it'll pull back and let the darkspawn do the fighting. It might be years before we can get close again. If we can end it here –"

"I know," Leliana said again, gently brushing a bit of errant hair away from her lover's face. "It's all right, dear one."

"It's not!" Talia insisted, shaking her head hard, eyes shining too bright. "I promised you that I'd never leave you!"

"And I know that you will keep that promise, if you can," the bard replied, capturing her Warden's hands in her own, raising them to her lips, looking into Talia's eyes as she kissed first one, then the other.

"I don't want to die," Talia whispered, the first tears escaping her eyes and trailing down her cheeks. "For so long, I didn't care, and now that I want to live –" She broke off, ducking her head, breaking eye contact. "I might die tomorrow," she admitted in a tight voice. "All three of us might."

And that was what haunted Leliana. Even if Morrigan's ritual worked, Talia or Alistair – or both – could be killed by the Archdemon, or by the darkspawn before they ever got close to the dragon. Releasing Talia's hands, she slipped her fingers beneath her lover's chin, lifting until their eyes met once more. "Do you remember what I said?" she asked softly. "Thirty years, thirty days, thirty minutes? I love you, Talia Cousland. I will treasure every moment that I am given with you, and I will fight at your side, tomorrow and every other day so long as I am able."

"No." Talia shook her head, fear for the bard rising in her eyes, pushing aside the torment. "I don't want you to –"

"That is my choice to make," Leliana insisted fiercely, stepping even closer and framing Talia's face in her hands. "I will not leave your side unless the Maker himself separates us." Blasphemy to speak of the Maker, considering what she had a part in this night, and she felt a sudden, cold certainty that the Maker would punish her for her lack of faith, that Talia would die tomorrow, ritual or no. Tangling her fingers in the dark hair, she pulled her Warden down into a desperate kiss, tasting both of their tears in the moments before Talia lifted her up and carried her to the bed.

"Don't," Leliana spoke when Talia moved to extinguish the lamp. "I want to see you." If this was to be their last night together, she wanted to commit every feature of that dear face to memory. Long after their lovemaking had ended and Talia had succumbed to slumber, she lay awake, watching her until the tiny flame drew up the last of the oil and dwindled into darkness.

It was still dark when she awoke to an empty bed, but instinct told her that morning was not far. Talia was a shadow in the darkness, standing at the window with a blanket draped around her. Leliana slipped out of the bed and went to her; she opened her arms, drawing Leliana in, wrapping the blanket around them both. The bard did not look out at the black clouds that covered the sky and hid the rising sun, lightning flickering through their churning depths. Her eyes closed, she savored the warmth of her lover's skin, the steady rhythm of her breath and heart, even as she felt the change in the tension of the muscles under her hands. The frightened girl from Highever was gone, perhaps for good; her Warden held her now, looking out into the looming storm with steely resolve, two words confirming what her breaking heart already knew:

"It's coming."

* * *

"Absolutely out of the question."

"We're not married yet, Fergus Cousland, and even when we are, you'll not be telling me what I can and cannot do as Queen!"

"Your Majesty, I think he's -"

"Nor will you, Cauthrien! I will _not_ cower in safety while my people fight and die outside my very windows!"

Cauthrien really hadn't expected to win this particular argument, but she had to try, and it was with no small amount of relief that she saw the Warden-Commander enter the planning room, Alistair and Leliana at her side.

Fergus clearly shared the feeling. "Talia, talk to her!" He gestured toward Anora, who was clad in a set of silverite plate-and-chain armor and wearing a two-handed sword that, while lighter than the Summer Sword, was finely made and razor sharp. "She intends to fight!"

Talia, who was wearing her own plate armor, with her starmetal sword at her hip and her shield secured across her back, stopped, looking from Anora to Fergus, who was likewise armed and armored. She looked tired and serious; there was little to be seen of the earnest girl that Cauthrien had met in Highever, but there was the faintest glint of amusement in her dark eyes. "So do you, I take it?" she asked him.

He flushed a bit. "Yes, but -" He broke off, looking flustered. "It's not because she's a woman, damn it; she's the Queen! If she is killed -"

"Neither of you should be fighting, if that's the logic," his sister informed him calmly, turning to Cauthrien. "Can she fight?"

The Warden-recruit could feel Anora's eyes boring into her. Even if the truth would have shattered the fragile rapprochement between them, she still would have spoken it, but she did not have it in her to lie. "She can, and quite well." It had been a good many years since they had trained together as girls, but she had watched the Queen sparring with Cailan often enough. She had been the equal of her husband in skill, and far more disciplined.

"Her choice, then," Talia replied with a shrug, stepping up to the map. "The scouts report that they are approaching from the south, and that they've not crossed the Drakon."

"The southern gate, then?" Cauthrien guessed. "And they can't swim?"

"Not from what I've read and seen," Talia confirmed. "The last ships are away?"

"Last night," Anora answered. "Bound for Amaranthine and Highever for now, but even so close, it will be two days before they return for more."

"How many still left in the city?" Alistair wanted to know.

"Thousands," the Queen reported, her countenance grave. "We took in hundreds of refugees from the south in recent weeks, and many are in no condition to travel further overland."

"If the darkspawn stay on the south side of the river, we can evacuate folk to the north side of the city," Talia observed, her finger sweeping over the area that included the marketplace. "Kardol's sappers can bring down the bridges; that could buy us a bit more time for the ships to return."

"A lack of bridges won't stop the Archdemon," Fergus said grimly.

"That's the Grey Warden's job," Talia replied. "If it comes, we will deal with it."

"There are only three of you," her brother tried to counter. "Surely waiting for the other Wardens -"

Talia cut him off, her words measured and calm. "If it comes, we will challenge it." Her tone brooked no dissent, and her eyes were as unyielding as onyx as they met his. Understanding and grief washed over his face, but before he could speak, she had turned quickly away.

"Come with me," she instructed Cauthrien as she strode out of the room. The Warden-recruit followed her commander after exchanging a worried glance with Anora.

"Commander, his assessment is tactically a sound one," she offered as Talia led the way into another chamber. Leliana had stopped at the door, her glower making it clear that she was not pleased with the exclusion, and Cauthrien was not surprised to find Riordan there, along with the two mages that had been conscripted and Mhairi, who had also volunteered to join. She waited until the door had closed before continuing. "Waiting until you have the advantage of greater numbers makes sense."

"He doesn't know the whole of it," Talia replied calmly. "Nor do you, nor will you until you become a Grey Warden, which cannot happen until the other Wardens arrive. Until then, you – all of you," the sweep of her gaze encompassed the four of them, "have one job: keep them alive, whatever the cost." The finger pointing decisively back the way they had come left little doubt who she meant.

The human mage – Anders was his name, Cauthrien thought – spoke first. "Not that I'm arguing, since I've spent most of the last year keeping your brother's hide intact anyway, just because he's a decent fellow, but wouldn't we better used against the Archdemon, if you're going to fight it?"

"Until you have Joined the order, you would be no more effective against the Archdemon than any other fighter," Riordan told him.

"That sounds suitably mysterious," Anders replied, eyebrows arched inquisitively. "So, I suppose we don't get taught the secret Warden handshake until then, either?"

Cauthrien frowned a bit at the flippancy, but Alistair chuckled and Talia gave him a wry smile. "Something like that," she told him.

"But … the Archdemon is huge, isn't it?" Sketch, the elven mage, looked between them, his forehead creased with worry. "If it's only the three of you against it, it doesn't seem likely that you'd survive."

"Grey Wardens are fearsome warriors," Mhairi scolded him, clearly scandalized at the suggestion. "They are the only ones who can kill it."

"We're not immortal," Talia told the lieutenant; physically, the two seemed to be near in age, but months' of hard experience separated them, etched clearly into the lines of the Warden-Commander's face. "He's right: the odds aren't good, but if we can kill it, we end this Blight before any more land and lives can be lost, and if we die, more Grey Wardens will be arriving in a few days. They'll kill it eventually." She spoke of the possibility of her own death in a matter-of-fact manner that Cauthrien had heard often enough in seasoned soldiers, seldom if ever in one so young. "But if Anora and Fergus are killed, Ferelden will be leaderless again. Even if the Blight is ended, another war over succession could be the end of this kingdom. We'll have others helping us against the Archdemon," she went on, "but I need you – all of you – to protect our King and Queen."

Her gaze swept the four of them, coming to rest last on Cauthrien, who felt a knot of apprehension form in her gut. "Talia – Commander -" She faltered, Cailan's face before her as he had always been: laughing and confident, sure in his own skill and that of those around him. She had done worse than fail him: she had betrayed his trust, abandoned him to the darkspawn. "I should not be the one to do this," she made herself say. "Ostagar -"

"-was Ostagar," Talia finished for her, dark eyes piercing her, the measuring look triggering a fresh wave of shame. "Planning on retreating again?"

Stung, Cauthrien drew herself up. "No, ser!"

Talia nodded once, satisfied. "Then there shouldn't be a problem." One corner of her mouth quirked upward slightly. "Just swing that bigass sword at anything that gets near them."

Cauthrien inclined her head. She had been Talia once: young and bold and certain of what was right and wrong. She had allowed herself to become lost in shades of grey, chosen loyalty over honor and in doing so, thrown away both and failed in her duty. The younger woman had given her the chance to reclaim all three. "The last drop of my blood will spill before the first of theirs is shed," she declared fervently. "This I -"

"Don't," Talia stopped her with an upraised hand. "Don't swear it. Just do it. Protect them. Promises ..." She shook her head slowly, regret touching her visage, "They mean nothing if you can't keep them."

It was not an indictment of her honor, Cauthrien realized, though Maker knew, Talia had been given more than enough reason to doubt it. It was something deeper and far more personal; if they both survived this day, perhaps she would ask of it. For now, she simply nodded her assent, though she made the vow in silence to herself: there would be no retreat, and she would die before allowing harm to come to those entrusted to her protection.

Talia turned to Riordan. "We need to speak with the others," she told him, gesturing to Alistair. "We'll meet you at the south gate."

She strode out confidently enough, but her eyes told a different tale: Talia Cousland did not expect to survive the coming day.

* * *

Zevran had slept well, as usual. An untroubled conscience and an acceptance of the fact that not all things were under anyone's control generally made for restful nights … and the pleasant fatigue caused by the affections of a comely lass from the kitchens had not hurt, either. If it was to have been his last night of life, he determined to enjoy it to the fullest … which made it not so very different from any other night, if the truth were known.

Others had not rested so well, or perhaps not at all. Fear saturated the air of the palace: it was plain in the pale and drawn faces of those he passed; in the hushed whispers and muffled sobs behind closed doors; in the way that the servants scurried to freshen torches and lamps that would normally have been extinguished with the arrival of morning, eyes shifting frequently to the darkness outside the windows that was deeper than a moonless midnight. The clouds were heavier than the elf had ever seen, roiling low overhead with flickers of lightning dancing among them and rumbles of thunder rattling the window panes, but no scent of rain touched the air. The wind was hot and dry out of the south, bringing with it the first faint tinges of a stench that would grow strong, indeed, before the day was done.

Ducking into the kitchens, Zevran accepted slices of cheese and meat on bread, along with a kiss from his previous night's bedmate before she rejoined the rush and bustle of those trying to feed those in the palace ahead of the day's battle. He ate with quick efficiency, knowing that the next chance for a meal might be long in coming, then sought out the chamber where the companions had met in recent evenings, sharing the events of each day amidst activities that drew them in different directions.

Insisting that being carried through the Deep Roads had left her considerably less fatigued than would otherwise be the case, Wynne had spent several hours the previous day among the newly arrived mages and templars from Kinloch, advising them on which magics were most effective against the darkspawn, and the telltale signs of an emissary's presence. Morrigan had joined her briefly, quite plainly caught between satisfaction at being able to use her magic so openly in front of the hated templars and discomfort at having so many eyes on her. She had not stayed long, winging off to observe and report on the advance of the darkspawn horde; her shapeshifting was a matter of fierce debate among the templars, a few of whom seemed disinclined to believe Wynne's assertion that the long-unseen talent was not the mark of a maleficar. The same skeptics were also quite displeased with Talia's conscription of the two apostates, but Knight-Commander Greagoir seemed to be maintaining discipline.

Sten had – at Talia's request – stepped in to assist in training any among the refugees who were willing and able to take up arms in defense of the city. The big man had scowled at the notion of trying to make warriors out of farmers and merchants, he conceded the point that they should at least be taught to defend themselves as best they could. Weapons were in short supply, so makeshift spears and clubs were being fashioned of wood, and the qunari was also able to demonstrate how to turn tools such as pitchforks and scythes to deadlier uses.

Oghren served as liaison to their dwarven allies; the Legionnaires had been placed at strategic points throughout Denerim, where their extensive experience in fighting darkspawn would shore up the less experienced forces of the surface dwellers. The sappers had finished setting the charges that would flood the tunnels beneath Denerim, should the darkspawn try to invade by that route, and scouts had been left below to provide warning. Their pungent friend seemed to be taking his duties with unusual seriousness, and while he had yet to bathe, he had been stone-cold sober ever since arriving yesterday: a record in the short period of their acquaintance.

After returning from their little jaunt to the Brecilian Forest – halfway there, in truth, as they had encountered Dalish scouts well ahead of the forest's edge, Shayle had – again at Talia's behest – assisted in repairing and reinforcing the city walls, moving tons of stone with ease, and in a fraction of the time it would have taken frail flesh to accomplish the task … and only once had the golem threatened to squish a worker who had the temerity to refer to her as 'it'.

Zevran had kept himself well occupied. Queen Anora had suggested that he assist in coordinating the preparations of 'his people' … and had been taken more than a bit aback when he had laughed uproariously at the notion. In truth, he had as little in common with elves, either the Dalish or those who dwelt among humans, as he had with Sten. He had not thought of himself as an elf in many years. He was an Antivan, a former Crow, an assassin and a lover, none of which had anything to do with his stature or the shape of his ears. Fortunately, Keeper Lanaya and Shianni, the fiery young redhead who had assisted them in the Alienage, had forged a cautious alliance, and though the Dalish for the most part kept themselves apart from their city-bred kin, no open hostilities between the two groups had occurred.

The same could not be said of some of the humans who had not heeded the royal edict that elves of any type were to be unmolested, but after two would-be rapists had received a swift trial, followed by an equally swift execution, no further infractions had been reported.

Zevran's time had been spent largely unseen and observing. Not all at the Landsmeet had been in favor of the outcome, and the bustle of preparations for battle would have been an ideal time to send an assassin to kill either the monarchs or the Wardens. Talia had asked him to protect her brother, and so he did, but he also watched over her, as much as he was able, though he knew that Leliana's keen eyes were also dedicated to that end. Thus far, no attempts had been made, but while a more trusting soul might conclude that the opposition had decided to put aside their animosity to meet the mutual threat of the darkspawn, Zevran was quite aware that the heat of battle would provide even better opportunities for regicide, with none the wiser. It had been thus for Loghain Mac Tir at Ostagar, had it not?

And now, the time had come. The darkspawn would be at the gates within a few hours, and if yesterday's brief encounter was any indication, the Archdemon would join the battle … and the Grey Wardens would challenge it. All three of them. From where he stood, it made neither tactical nor strategic sense, but the feel of secrets flowing beneath the surface was stronger now than it had ever been, none more intriguing than whatever had drawn Morrigan and Leliana away – together – after the Wardens had departed yesterday. He had trailed Fergus and his entourage to the ruckus between apostates and templars, watched the events unfold from his place of concealment, but though his curiosity urged him to trail witch and bard, his duty lay with Talia's brother, and that was where he had remained.

Most of the rest had gathered in the chamber by the time he arrived. The Wardens entered soon after, Leliana's hand linked firmly with Talia's, and Brego a burly shadow at her left side. Alistair's eyes cut to Morrigan, his expression altering swiftly when he realized that Zevran was watching him. For her part, the witch never so much as glanced in the Warden's direction, her golden eyes steady on Talia. Too steady, perhaps?

_Interesting._ Had the pair decided last night to do something about the tension that had been coursing between them since the Brecilian Forest? If so, Talia was completely unaware of it, but Leliana did not seem to notice, either … which could be a slip on her part or honest distraction, given the situation. Perhaps they could discuss it, once the battle was ended. Provided both of them survived, of course.

Talia waited until Alistair had closed behind them to speak. "This ..." She swallowed, looking down, then back up. "This is it. The darkspawn will be here in a couple of hours, and the Archdemon will likely attack, as well."

"About damn time!" Oghren growled, eyes gleaming with anticipation beneath bushy brows. "We can kill the nug-humper and be in the tavern havin' drinks bought for us by dinner."

"No." Talia's denial was calm but firm. "If – when – the Archdemon comes, Riordan, Alistair and I will fight it, along with Leliana and Wynne. No one else." The mage nodded her acceptance of the task, blue eyes solemn, no trace of fear in her demeanor. The bard stood defiantly, as though challenging any to gainsay her right to fight at her Warden's side.

None did, though Morrigan looked decidedly displeased. "Do you have so little faith in the rest of us, then?" she asked sharply.

"Far from it," Talia replied, shaking her head. "You – all of you – are the reason that we've made it to this point, and I could have wished for no truer companions … no truer friends." Her eyes shone with emotion as she looked to each of them. "But in this, we must take separate paths. Grey Wardens are the only ones who can kill the Archdemon. It's resistant to magic, Morrigan. Wynne is coming to heal us and hopefully keep us going long enough to get to it.

"The rest of you are to help hold the gates, and when they are broken, get as many people across the bridges to the north side of the city as possible before the dwarves bring them down." Zevran did not miss that she said 'when', not 'if'. The darkspawn themselves might besiege the walls with little success, but if the Archdemon entered the fray, it would only be a matter of time before a breach occurred. "We're outnumbered at least four to one, maybe more. The only chance of saving Denerim is if we can kill the Archdemon; all the histories say that once that's done, the darkspawn will become disorganized and try to return to the Deep Roads."

"And if the Archdemon does not appear?" Morrigan wanted to know.

"Then we fight together," Talia responded without hesitation, "as we always do, and stay close to Fergus and Anora. They both intend to fight today." Her scowl made it plain what her opinion on that was. "And if the Archdemon does show up, after Alistair and I leave, you're in charge, Sten."

"No." It was the first time that the qunari had refused an order from Talia since she had recovered his sword, and it plainly surprised her.

"Sten, you're the most experienced in battle," she told him, her voice level. Shouting at him would have no more effect that shouting at a stone to move, and she knew it.

"Yes," the big man confirmed with his characteristic modesty, "and that is why I will fight the Archdemon with you. I have followed you to this point, Kadan," he went on when she seemed ready to argue the point, "but now I must complete the mission that I was given by the Arishok. I will not learn the nature of the Blight by holding the gates, or protecting your leaders. To tell the Arishok what a Blight is, I must face the thing that causes this Blight. I _will_ help you kill this Archdemon."

He spoke calmly, but without a hint of any willingness to compromise, and Talia at last nodded slowly. "Fair enough," she said quietly.

"Are the rest of us also permitted to disobey your orders?" Morrigan demanded, still plainly out of sorts. Zevran more than half expected Leliana to take offense at the witch's repeated challenges, but she said nothing, her expression a carefully neutral mask. And it _was_ a mask, the Antivan realized, but what did it hide?

Even more intriguing was Alistair, who was regarding Morrigan with an intense expression, as though trying to convey something without words, only to flush and look away when he once more realized that he was being observed. What _was_ going on … and more to the point, how might it influence matters once the battle had been entered? Zevran pondered this, debating whether the potential was significant enough to allow him to indulge his curiosity.

Talia meanwhile had missed the subtleties of the moment, her focus entirely on Morrigan's rebellion. "I'm not ordering you, Morrigan," she told the witch. "I'm asking you. People are going to die to get us close enough to the Archdemon to kill it." She bit her lip, her expression as grave as Zevran had ever seen it. "Maybe I'm selfish, but I don't want any of you to be among them. I'd keep _her_ out of it, if I could," she added, nodding toward Leliana.

"You'd have to tie me up," the redhead shot back.

Talia glanced at her, a faint smile touching her lips. "Promises, promises?"

Alistair chuckled softly. The exchange had no meaning to Zevran apart from the obvious, but it evidently held some private significance for the two women, who looked into each other's eyes for a long moment before Talia bent to bestow a tender kiss on the bard.

Morrigan did not look quite so disgusted at the display of affection as Zevran might have expected. "As you wish," she sighed, "but do keep in mind that your friends would prefer that _you_ survive, as well." The word 'friend' was spoken casually enough, but it was the first time that Zevran could remember the witch uttering it, and Talia's eyes softened noticeably at its use.

"I'll do my best," Talia answered simply. Another might have resorted to bravado and brash promises, but the young noble put too much value in her honor to make vows lightly. She faced them openly, letting them see fear and resolve alike in her face. "Whatever happens today, it has been my honor to have traveled and fought alongside each one of you," she told them. "May the Maker watch over us all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. - I intended to get to the start of the battle in this chapter, but as usual, the characters had other ideas, and this seemed a good spot to pause. I was also going to do the 'last goodbye' exchanges with the crew in that final scene, but most if not all of the canon dialog is geared toward one-on-one exchanges, so I'll work them into the early part of the next chapter.
> 
> I definitely wanted to explore Leliana's reaction to the Dark Ritual and her part in it, because it will play a big part in her choices and motivations in the stories beyond this one. In her own eyes, she has allowed her faith to falter and sinned against the Maker, and that is something that will continue to haunt her.
> 
> I have plans for Cauthrien … and that's all I'm going to say for now. I will offer a shout-out to Grace Kay, whose creative choices in her Inquisition-era stories 'O Seeker Still Seeking' and 'Forged Through Fade And Flame' are helping me to ask the questions that are getting my ducks in a row for my own take on it. A lot of the game narrative is the result of the needs of game play, which doesn't always translate well into novelizations, and a lot of the choices I've made are going to significantly alter the storyline. But I figure if you want the canon story, you just go play the game again, right?
> 
> Zevran is, as always, my go-to for a clear eyed look at things, and it seemed likely to me that he would pick up on the post-Ritual undercurrents, particularly with Alistair, who makes Talia look like a master at dissemblance.


	69. Sacrifice

By all reckoning, the sun should have risen, but the the heavy clouds overhead remained as impenetrable as the stone of the Deep Roads, casting all the land into a darkness that only increased the fear of the folk who remained in Denerim. In the south and west, a sullen red glow had been visible on the horizon for several hours, growing slowly brighter. Temulun had reported that the darkspawn were burning as they advanced: forests, farmland, buildings. All of it put to the torch. A mindless instinct for destruction, or a darker cunning that knew the panic that fire would bring?

Talia made her way along the wall, Leliana and Alistair at her side. She did not look to the horizon; she knew well enough what there was to be seen. An hour now, maybe less, until the vanguard of the darkspawn horde reached the walls of Denerim. There had been no sign as yet of the Archdemon, but she could feel its presence thrumming through her veins, and she knew that the half-formed hope that it would stay away had been in vain. The wall had been made as solid as time and materials allowed, but three decades of peace had seen any serious upkeep near the bottom of the list of priorities. It would hold against the darkspawn themselves, but a focused attack by the Archdemon would open a breach … maybe more than one.

Archers lined the top of the wall, with bundles of arrows every few feet; every fletcher in the city had been working almost nonstop. Iron cauldrons had been set up over fires and filled with oil, ready to be tipped over the battlements onto any trying to climb the walls, and warriors with stout poles stood ready to push away ladders.

Long idle siege engines had been repaired: mangonels and trebuchets stood ready to hurl stones and lit barrels of pitch and oil out onto the attackers; ballistas had been positioned around the city, most of them under instruction to hold their fire until the Archdemon presented itself. They had harassed it the previous day; a lucky shot might cripple it, bring it to earth where it could be more easily dealt with. One more long shot that nobody believed would work, but had to be tried nonetheless. Fergus had been adamant about it, once he had realized that there would be no dissuading the Grey Wardens from challenging their adversary.

He feared for her, no less than she for him. Many would die this day, and Talia was acutely aware that the combination of luck and skill that had brought their company this far unscathed could not be expected to hold. Her own death was a likelihood that she had accepted, and in many ways, it was easier to contemplate that than to think of any of her friends falling in the coming battle. She would have traded her life for any of theirs in a heartbeat, but she knew by now that the Maker did not strike such bargains. Was He watching now? Did He even care of the outcome, or was this event that loomed huge in the lives of thousands an insignificant part of His greater plan … whatever that was?

Leliana still believed that He watched and cared; she had spent several minutes kneeling, head bowed in prayer, before they had left the palace for the last time. Even now, her lips moved slightly, forming the words of the Chant as she looked from the wall out over the crowds that had gathered in Denerim's defense.

Given the choice to remain and fight or flee the city, more had chosen to stay than she had expected. Soldiers and guards stood shoulder to shoulder with farmers, craftsmen, merchants, wearing armor cobbled together and bearing whatever makeshift weapons could be found. Virtually anyone able to wield a weapon had elected to do so to give the rest more time to make their escape. Those who could had already fled on foot to the north and west: Highever and Amaranthine, and beyond them, Orlais and the Free Marches. Remaining still were the children and elderly, the injured and ill and infirm: those unable to flee on foot, and those who would not leave them. Ships might return as early as tomorrow to bear more of them away to safety, but first, they must survive the day and night.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd as Fergus and Anora made their way along the wall to the battlements over the south gate. Her brother had refused to don Cailan's armor that had been recovered from Ostagar, but his own had been repaired and polished until steel and leather gleamed in the torchlight. Beside him, Anora looked every inch the warrior queen, and Talia hoped that Cauthrien had not exaggerated when she spoke of her skill in combat.

"People of Ferelden!" Fergus shouted, his voice carrying clearly in the still air as the murmurs dwindled to attentive silence. "Our ancient enemy approaches, and it falls to us to meet them in battle! In centuries past, Archdemons have been slain and their darkspawn minions driven back beneath the earth, and so it shall be again! Grey Wardens by the hundreds are bound here now, to take up the fight as they have for a thousand years!"

Scattered cheers arose in response, but Talia could see grim apprehension on the faces of many of those gathered. Fergus saw it, too, and his face grew grave as he continued.

"I do not ask you to fight for Denerim. What is destroyed can be rebuilt. Nor for glory, though your names will deserve to be sung in songs for generations to come. Behind you are your children and parents, your younger siblings, your husbands and wives and neighbors who cannot fight and cannot flee. It is for them that I ask you to fight – that I will fight alongside you – until the last of them can be withdrawn across the river."

It was the final strategy they had agreed upon. The darkspawn could not swim, and the Chasind scouts reported that they had made no attempts to ford the Drakon River on their march toward Denerim. Some would find their way across on debris or scavenged boats, but they would be much fewer in number and more easily dealt with. Groups of soldiers were doing a house to house sweep now, finding the last holdouts and escorting them to the crowds that were being moved across the four bridges that spanned the river within the city. Even though the evacuations had begun as soon as word of the darkspawn advance had been received, the new arrivals that flooded into the city seemed to keep pace with those that were placed on ships or sent north on foot, and thousands remained in southern Denerim, the work of hours to get across the bridges, after which, the defenders would have to be withdrawn – if there was time – before the dwarven explosives brought down the bridges.

A shout from the lookouts announced that the first darkspawn had come into view, and Talia turned her head, her hand seeking out Leliana's as her eyes fell upon the countless torches blazing in the darkness perhaps half a mile from the wall, and the misshapen shadows looming beneath their light. The taint in her blood roiled at the nearness of so many, but as Alistair had promised, it was easier to bear now, though still far from pleasant.

"Maker's breath." Leliana's face was pale, and her hand gripped Talia's tightly. Seeing the darkspawn massed at the bottom of the canyon in the Deep Roads had been been heart-stopping, but this -

"There's more of them than there were at Ostagar," Alistair said grimly. Talia had only vague memories of glimpses caught from the windows of the Tower of Ishal as they had climbed, but what she could recall was dwarfed by a line that seemed to stretch from one side of the horizon to the other, and continued back further than her eye could see. How many broodmothers writhed in the darkness below to have spawned so many? Hurlocks and genlocks, shrieks and ogres lumbered forward, and here and there among the vanguard, Talia's eyes picked out the skeletal frames of catapults, scavenged from the ruins of Ostagar or built for them by the tainted ghouls, their minds enslaved by the song of the Archdemon even as its corruption consumed their bodies.

A collective groan ran through the ranks below, fear licking around the edges like a wildfire seeking fuel, but Fergus never turned to look at the approaching host, drawing his sword from its sheath and brandishing it as he spoke.

"You fear the darkspawn, as do I, as does any sane man or woman when faced with an abomination of all that is good and right in this world. You fear their numbers, you fear a fight that seems hopeless, but I tell you that these Grey Wardens -" He pointed to Talia and Alistair, "- have shown that it is not! They alone of the Fereldan order survived Loghain's treachery at Ostagar, and found themselves hunted by man and darkspawn alike. Yet they fought on, endured hardship and danger, gathered allies from across these lands and united Ferelden! They are proof of what Fereldans can accomplish when their hearts are bold and their cause is just! Orlais learned it thirty years ago, and the darkspawn will learn it today! We will fight so long as we can lift our blades, so long as we can bear our shields! For our kin and countrymen! _For Ferelden_!"

His final roar was echoed from scores of throats, weapons thrust defiantly in the air, and for a moment, they seemed ready to surge through the gates and challenge the darkspawn head on. Gradually, the shouts of commanding officers cut through the clamor, and the crowds began to disperse to their assigned duty stations. Archers took to the walls alongside those who would be manning the cauldrons, templars and mages interspersed among them.

"He's good." Talia looked to her left to find Riordan at her elbow, watching appraisingly as Fergus and Anora made their way to a more secure spot along the wall, Cauthrien and the others assigned to their protective detail keeping close.

"Our parents taught him to lead," Talia replied simply, feeling a quiet pride at the approval in the older Warden's expression.

"I do not know that I would have recommended leading from the front in this instance," Riordan told her, adding with a wry smile, "but you would not be Fereldans if you did otherwise." He moved to the top of the wall, looking out at the relentlessly advancing hoarde. "Twenty-five years I have waited for this moment, and prayed that I would not see it," he said softly, his eyes cutting to Talia and Alistair. "What is your plan?"

Talia blinked. She'd expected to be given orders. "Stay close to Fergus and Anora until the Archdemon comes," she replied, glancing to Alistair for confirmation.

"Good." Riordan nodded, looking satisfied. "Ferelden will need its king and queen to recover from the Blight. Protecting them from the darkspawn should, I think, be given precedence over an endeavor that is almost certain to fail."

Talia frowned, feeling Leliana's hand tighten on hers. "But we decided yesterday -"

"Incoming!" The warning shout from the walls brought all of them around to see the fiery masses being hurled from the foremost catapults, arching over the walls. As they began their descents, they broke apart into the flaming debris that composed them: boards and rooftop thatching, from the looks of it. The fire crews were on them as soon as they struck, beating out flames or dousing them with water.

"Guess they couldn't find any barrels of pitch," Alistair remarked. "Those shouldn't be too bad."

"Enough of them will be," Riordan replied grimly as another volley descended and a thatched roof caught, requiring the efforts of over a dozen to put it out. Along the wall, the order to loose arrows was shouted, and hundreds of bowstrings sang out. Giving Talia's hand a final squeeze, Leliana released her, taking up her own longbow and stepping into position on the line. Talia didn't like it; the prospect of her own death paled next to the thought of harm coming to her bard, but she knew well enough what the reaction would be if she tried to keep her lover from the fight.

The three Wardens moved along the wall until they could see what was happening below. The front lines of the darkspawn had reached the base of the wall and milled restlessly against it. A few crudely constructed ladders were tipped up against the wall, but those were easily repelled and shattered by the defenders.

"Their greatest danger has always lay in their numbers, rather than their cunning," Riordan observed as they began hurling their torches up and over the wall. One landed in a simmering cauldron, leading to a flareup that nearly got out of control before a pair of mages cooled the blaze. Other cauldrons were hurriedly tipped over the wall, resulting in howls that sounded more enraged than hurt as the oil was lit by the torches, sending darkspawn wreathed in flame stumbling back into their own ranks, while more surged forward to replace them. "So long as the Archdemon survives, each one will fight until death, knowing neither fear nor pain."

"And if the Archdemon is killed?" Talia asked him. She had read it herself in the books in the Redcliffe library, but in the few days since they had met, Riordan had become the voice of experience that they had so desperately hungered for over the previous year.

"Once its song ceases, they will seek it again," he replied. "They will try to return to the Deep Roads, to resume their search. They will be disorganized, unfocused without its control, but still dangerous. They will still kill any living thing they encounter, still seek to take females to make broodmothers. The Grey Wardens will be busy in Ferelden for some time after the death of the Archdemon."

"Good to know we won't have to look for another job," Alistair quipped with a wry smile that shifted abruptly to a grimace. "And speaking of you-know-who ..." he muttered, looking up.

Talia felt it, too, saw Riordan lifting his eyes skyward in response to the Archdemon's song rising in the silence of their minds. She dropped her hand to Starfang's hilt, heart racing in anticipation and dread, but the torchlight that reflected from the bottom of the clouds that loomed low overhead showed only a brief swirl in the mist, a flash of a scaled belly and the tip of a wing, then nothing, the clouds settling back into an impenetrable ceiling as the song receded once more into the distance.

"It is searching for us," Riordan said, staring at the spot where it had been visible, hunger burning in his eyes. He did not fear the prospect of his own death, Talia realized, unsure whether she envied or resented it; the days when she had felt the same had receded in memory until they had taken on the quality of an old nightmare.

"It couldn't sense us when we saw it in the Deep Roads," she told him, Alistair nodding his agreement. "We thought then that it was because all the darkspawn were so close." Maker knew that the presence of the unholy army below was a constant clamor along her awareness that made picking out any one darkspawn impossible.

"A logical conclusion," Riordan said thoughtfully, "and one that we may be able to use to our advantage. I will put some distance between us. You two stay with the king and queen and help protect them. Hopefully, if it cannot sense our presence, it will not join in the attack."

"What if it does?" she wanted to know. His reasoning seemed sound enough, but the beast had already defied his expectations once.

"If the ballistas can bring it down, we will attack it," he replied, "but until it is brought down, do not challenge it. If it falls, find me first, and we will make a plan of attack."

Before Talia could respond, a ladder swung upward from the darkness with genlocks clinging to its upper rungs, then leaping to the battlements before the soldiers could push them away. Drawing Starfang, she moved quickly to challenge them, Alistair beside her. The few that actually made it atop the wall were quickly dispatched, the ladder shattered by a stout fellow wielding a massive maul, but by the time it was done, Riordan was nowhere to be found.

"What do we do now?" Alistair wondered.

Talia shrugged. "Follow orders," she replied, her eyes seeking out their companions, who had drawn near. "Zev, stay with the King and Queen, no matter what."

The elf nodded, green eyes regarding her with a rare lack of insouciance, though a smile still teased at the corners of his mouth. "Take care, my friend," he told her, dipping a flourishing bow before slipping away.

"Alistair, Sten, Morrigan: take the wall on the far side of Fergus and Anora. Leliana, Wynne and Oghren: with me." A mage, a warrior and a Warden in each group; as much as she wanted them to fight together as they were used to doing, there was not room atop the wall for that.

She crouched beside her Mabari, catching his burly head in her hands. "Brego, protect Fergus." He whined anxiously, licking at her hands. "Just until we go after the Archdemon, boy," she promised him. "I wouldn't try that without you." With a soft chuff, he licked her face and trotted off along the wall.

She stood, fighting the foreboding that this would be the last time that she saw some of the faces around her. "Shayle, I don't think there's any way you're going to fit up here."

"Human construction _is_ flimsy," the golem confirmed disdainfully, "but I suspect I shall have plenty of opportunity for squishing when the wall is broken."

When, not if. "When it happens, we'll join you, fight as we usually do," she told her, lifting her eyes to the rest of her companions.

"And if the Archdemon comes?" Morrigan challenged her again, golden eyes intense.

Talia didn't hesitate. Couldn't. She wanted them all with her, and she wanted them all out of harm's way, but neither was possible. "We stick with the plan. Sten, Leliana and Wynne go with Alistair and me; the rest of you keep protecting Fergus and Anora." She braced herself for another argument, but the witch simply nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line, and stalked along the wall to her assigned position. Alistair gave her an awkward shrug and followed, Sten close behind.

"This is it, then," Oghren said, stumping up the steps onto the wall and peering over, eyes gleaming with anticipation as they turned back to Talia. "Let the stone turn red from the blood of heroes."

"I would prefer that not happen." Leliana kept her voice light, but her blue eyes were serious as her hand slipped into Talia's.

"Just a sayin', Red," the dwarf replied, then grinned savagely. "More black blood to be spilled, anyhow."

The next several hours gave Talia her first taste of siege warfare: long stretches of waiting and watching, punctuated by brief periods of frantic activity when some of the attackers gained the top of the wall. The rest of the time, the fighting was done by the archers and siege engines, and the combination of boredom with the need for vigilance did not sit well with one used to being in the thick of battle. Still, the longer the stalemate held, the more time for the ships to return to carry more to safety, and for the other Wardens to arrive. The promise of others who would help to carry the fight to the Archdemon, others who were prepared to offer up their lives to end the Blight, was worth waiting for.

She felt the presence of the Archdemon as morning gave way to noon, then afternoon, and the sky overhead remained as dark as midnight. Distant, then drawing close, then right overhead, it remained unseen above the cloud cover, its roar carrying eerily through the heavy air. They had assigned Chantry sisters to track the time with an hourglass, to know when the defenders on the walls should be relieved; it was shortly before dusk that Talia felt the song beginning to swell again in her mind, along with a sense of dreadful purpose that had not been present on the earlier passes.

"It's coming!" she shouted, pulling Leliana and Wynne toward the stairs, holding up her shield to cover them as the Archdemon burst from the cloud ceiling, shrieking its fury as flames burst from its gaping jaws. A nearby building exploded in fire, stone and timber flying in every direction as the dragon banked and swept around.

"Fire!" Talia thought that the distant cry was meant for the bucket brigades that had been fighting the flaming bundles delivered by the darkspawns' rickety catapults until ballista bolts sailed through the air. The Archdemon screamed defiance, easily evading the missiles, and dove toward a different spot, sweeping so low that for a moment it was lost below the rooflines.

"It's broken the wall," Wynne announced grimly when the distant detonation was followed by the trumpet that had been arranged as a signal.

"Let's go, then!" Oghren was readying for a charge, but Talia shook her head.

"We stay close to Anora and Fergus," she told him firmly, her gaze searching out her brother and the Queen being guided off the wall, their protectors drawn close around them. Her eyes shifted to the ballista positions and the crews trying frantically to reload as the Archdemon began another pass. Another section of the wall came down, then another, before the next rounds could be fired; it evaded these as easily as it had the last, and on its next dive, it targeted its attackers.

"Get out!" Talia roared, knowing that the distant men and women couldn't hear her. She saw a number of them leaping clear as the Archdemon swooped in, but in the burst of shattered wood and flame, she saw bodies tossed about, as well, and howled her frustration, fighting the urge to charge forward blindly into the fray, feeling Leliana's hand holding tight to her arm.

Then, as the monster swept low again, a lone figure dropped from the tower of the Chantry, backlit against the flames in the instant before it landed on the Archdemon's back.

Riordan.

* * *

The song burned in his blood like fire as he climbed upward. Never had he dreamed that it could have such power … such beauty. Never had Riordan more keenly felt his kinship with the seething mass of monsters that surrounded the city, understood why they obeyed so blindly.

It should be him. Decades of service had led him here and now; if he was bold enough, lucky enough, he could end it here and now. Talia and Alistair had already done more than he would have believed possible. Let them live; their knowledge would be invaluable to an order that had not faced a Blight in four centuries. The killing blow, the ultimate sacrifice, would be his.

He had selected this point when he had left the other two, made for it as soon as he realized the Archdemon's intent. It was the highest point in the town, this which that held the bells that summoned the faithful to worship; only the palace and Fort Drakon rose higher. Steps, then ladders, then finally the belfry, its open sides providing a panoramic view of the hell below as the darkspawn poured through the gaps in the walls like an unstoppable flood. The hope of holding until reinforcements arrived out was gone; the battle was joined, and hundreds would die, unless he could silence the song.

High, but not yet high enough, and Riordan leaned out, fingers gripping the wooden shingles as he struggled onto the steepled roof of the belfry, the bells thrumming gently to the currents in the air. The angle was steep, and he drew his dagger, plunged it into the roof, used it as leverage to drag himself up until his fingers closed around the base of the copper weathervane at the peak.

He freed the dagger and hauled himself upright, clinging to the metal pole, all too aware of the lightning that sparked through the volatile darkness. The swirling clouds felt close enough to touch, and when he looked to the south and west, the torches of the darkspawn hoard stretched without end into the blackness. No mortal army could hope to match such numbers; only by killing its commander was there any hope.

_In death, sacrifice._

The Archdemon screamed past, close but above him, and he crouched, watching as it dove upon one of the ballista emplacements, a blast of explosive fire engulfing the structure and its crew, sending flaming chunks of wood and flesh flying every which way. It banked and began an almost leisurely downward glide, clearly intent on targeting another section of wall, and Riordan wondered at his earlier estimation of its intelligence. Clearly, it understood the importance of the wall, though that did not require any great genius. Another gout of fulminant fire, another section of wall crumbling from the force of the blast, and the Archdemon banked sharply, beginning to climb once more.

Riordan tensed, dropping into a crouch as his eyes tracked the path of its trajectory, estimating distances. Close … closer …

_Now!_

He leaped, empty air yawning beneath him, drawing him down in a stomach-twisting descent that was arrested by a bone-jarring impact as he landed between the outstretched wings. The landing very nearly knocked the wind out of him, but even worse was the _feel_ of the massive bulk beneath him: pulsating with heat and corruption so intense that it seemed it must sear the flesh from his bones, the song screaming through his blood now, all but drowning out the thunderous roar that emitted from the Archdemon's throat.

The compulsion to obey, to serve, to _worship_ , had never been stronger, but the revulsion was more powerful still, and he could also sense the fear of the Archdemon as it felt for the first time the ages-old foe of its kind upon its back. It dropped in the sky, then beat its wings hard to regain altitude, arching and twisting as it attempted to throw off its hated burden.

Had any Grey Warden ever _ridden_ an Archdemon? Riordan could not recall, nor did he have the luxury of ruminating on the subject. Savage exultation surged through him, and he gripped hard at a neck ridge with his left hand, driving the dagger in his right down again and again, aiming at the joint where one wing met the shoulder. Scales chipped away, then black blood spurted, covering his face, and the Archdemon howled in pain and rage, but it was not enough, he needed time that he knew he did not have …

A ballista bolt tore through the middle of the right wing, bringing the wild ascent to a halt, but Riordan's shout of triumph was cut short as the sudden twist accomplished what the Archdemon's prior gyrations had not. His left hand lost its grip, and he was once again falling through the air, realizing just how high the dragon had flown.

The Archdemon was falling, too: crippled but far from dead. He watched it floundering in the air toward the looming towers of Fort Drakon, and as he hurtled toward the ground, he knew that it would be one of the younger Wardens who must strike the final blow.

_I am sorry._

* * *


End file.
